


An Equitable Arrangement

by snafsnaf



Series: snafsnaf's GO Renovation [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Dancing, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, We are not talking about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snafsnaf/pseuds/snafsnaf
Summary: After Crowley moves into the bookshop, the pair adjusts to life in the neighborhood by pretending to be a human couple.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: snafsnaf's GO Renovation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099058
Comments: 27
Kudos: 87





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to read _The Renovation_ (but you are welcome to) as long as you can accept that this story starts post-Armageddon after Crowley has moved into Aziraphale's home in a spare room created just for him by the Antichrist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale (and Crowley) is invited to participate in a dance lesson.

They had fallen into a pattern so easily that, had it not been for the calendar hanging in the backroom, the angel and demon would not have believed they had not always lived like this. Aziraphale opened the shop in the morning and closed it just before noon. Then he and Crowley would go to lunch and take a walk. Sometimes they would drive the Bentley to someplace new and far, and sometimes they merely strolled to a local favorite. At a certain point, they had dinner and then spent more time together at the shop, drinking and talking or just being quiet and at ease in each other's presence before Crowley went to his room to sleep and Aziraphale went to his desk for some bookkeeping, letting the cycle repeat the next day.

Occasionally when they were out, they'd pass by a newsstand and one of them would notice a decorating magazine but neither of them pointed it out. The Antichrist had added a spare bedroom when he had restored the bookshop, and Crowley was only staying there until the demon renovated his flat, but after smashing a few walls to pieces, the effort stalled. There was no point in rushing through the demolition, Crowley had said, until he had decided what he wanted his flat to look like. And he had yet to decide on a style, thus the interest in the decorating magazines. But the angel didn't want to give the impression that he was in a rush to get rid of his houseguest, and Crowley didn't want his host to think he felt ungrateful.

Or that was what they would say if pressed. In fact, the two of them found the current arrangement too much to their liking to rattle it, so they walked past the magazine stands without a backward glance. 

* * *

"Mr. Fell! I'm so happy I've caught you," called an enthusiastic young voice as the angel and demon paused to lock the shop before lunch. 

"Ah! Yes! Patrick, dear boy!" said the angel. "And how are you today?" He was a bit surprised but he thought he hid it well. 

"Just perfect, Mr. Fell, but I do have a favor to ask." The young man got to the point and held out a colorful sheet of paper. "My parents are letting me organize Wednesday night dance lessons at the coffeeshop, but the first two weeks were pretty poorly attended. If I can't turn it around soon, they'll cancel it. Can I post a flyer in your shop window?"

"Dance lessons?" he repeated and turned to look at Crowley. The look was meant to convey shock at the passage of time. Aziraphale had been in the shop for decades -- over a century -- and every so often it struck him how quick and ephemeral human lives were compared with his own immortality. He remembered when Patrick started toddling on the pavement outside his shop, when he was an infant who had to be carried everywhere, when he was merely a bump in his mother's tummy. And now that boy was arranging a dance class! How soon before Patrick settled down and took over for his parents in running the coffeeshop?

Unfortunately, Patrick thought the look meant perhaps his neighbor wanted to be there. "You are welcome to come, Mr. Fell," he offered. "You and your…" Patrick ran out of words. 

Crowley knew that it was no secret to the busybodies in the neighborhood that a man had moved in with Mr. Fell in the one-bedroom flat above the bookstore although no one had seen him bring as much as a suitcase; that this was the same man (or merely looked like it, maybe Mr. Fell had _a type_ ) who had visited off and on for years. And while the two were practically inseparable from lunch onward, they never actually did anything to satisfy the gossips. There was no handholding, no public displays of affection, no answer to the burning question, _Are they or aren't they?_

As a demon, he could appreciate calumny and rumor, but as the best friend to an angel, he couldn't encourage it. 

"Crowley," snapped the redhead, giving away nothing. "I'm his Crowley." 

Patrick smiled a little too tightly. "Yes, I've seen you around the neighborhood, and of course the car." He paused to look covetously at the Bentley.

"Oi, Paddy, eyes up here and hands to yourself," Crowley growled in warning.

Patrick was a little stunned by the possessive streak but recovered quickly. "Well, you're both welcome. Wednesday evening. The more, the merrier."

"I'll certainly advertise it," said the angel, taking the flyer, "but let me hang it after lunch. We're just going out, you see."

"Thank you, Mr. Fell!" the young man enthused. "Every little bit helps." With that, he moved on to the next storefront. 

"You are not seriously considering it," said Crowley when they were alone in the car.

"I certainly wasn't."

* * *

Nearly a week later, they ate dinner early. Crowley wasn't exactly sure why, but they skipped lunch, running errands instead. Eating and drinking were really just habits, so it didn't matter if they skipped a meal every now and again. As he maneuvered the Bentley into its accustomed spot, he noticed a small queue in front of the coffeeshop.

"Angel, you cannot be serious," he stated flatly. 

"You don't have to come," Aziraphale quickly said. "You can just go home… I mean to the bookshop… and-"

"I know what you mean," Crowley cut him off before Aziraphale apologized too much. "But angels can't dance."

"Now, that is an unkind and ignorant stereotype," the angel straightened his spine. "And that's the whole point of going to lessons: to learn how!"

Crowley pressed himself into his seat. The car was not built for the sort of slouching he wanted to do. "I have known you a long time, Angel. I have seen you move. You cannot dance."

"Whether you are right or wrong about that, I am still going to support Patrick," Aziraphale stated. "I want him to succeed. I want all my neighbors to be successful. That's why we're still here, isn't it? And I would appreciate it if you came too, but if dancing makes you uncomfortable, I understand."

Crowley had to scoff at that. "Have you ever seen me dance? Did I look uncomfortable?" Dancing, he had been quick to discover, was a very effective means of temptation, putting all sorts of thoughts in people's heads. But Aziraphale was so sincerely and guiltily trying not to look at him right now 

"Tell me that you didn't appoint yourself as this boy's guardian angel," he said in a tone that skirted dangerously close to a whine. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth and then shut it. No denial came. 

"Angel!" Crowley yelped in frustration. 

"You should have seen him as a baby," his companion said. "He was adorable."

The demon huffed and puffed but it seemed that the decision was already made. "Fine. Thirty minutes. That's all I promise for good behavior. And no dancing for me."

Aziraphale beamed at him.

* * *

By some miracle, the crowd was too large for Patrick to personally thank them, but he saw them and shouted something grateful at them across the occupied tables. Crowley nodded and flashed the correct number of teeth, then went to order a drink. It was only a coffeeshop that could not sell alcohol, but the demon didn't let that detail stop him from miracling a little indulgence into his mug.

Patrick soon called the class to order and had them form two lines in the open space at the front of the store, men on one side, women on the other. The lines were uneven until one of the women switched sides and Patrick started to walk them through the basic footwork for the night's dance. 

Crowley watched and winced as Aziraphale stumbled through the steps, so earnestly trying to get it right yet lacking an innate rhythm to lead. As a dutiful angel, he probably could follow quite well, but the numbers of male and female dancers didn't support that role for him. 

Crowley drained the contents of his mug when a woman joined him at his table, looking as confident as if she owned the place. "So," she said, cheerfully, "Patrick tells me that you are Mr. Fell's Mr. Crowley."

"You must be Patrick's mother," he replied. The two humans had the same shape to their mouth and nose, and the age difference was right. 

"Yes, I am. I've seen you around the neighborhood before but we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Bernice." She held out her hand. 

Crowley took it briefly because that was what humans did. Then he turned his attention back to the dancers who were pairing up to try out their new steps. He preemptively pitied whoever got stuck with the angel.

"Forgive me if I'm being forward," she began, and Crowley just knew she was about to be forward and not at all sorry about it, "but it's good to see that Mr. Fell has a… a companion. He's been in that shop forever, and completely alone. My husband and I sometimes worry about him."

Maybe the woman kept talking, but with all the conversations and music, the mass of bodies, the heat of the room, it all faded into white noise. All he felt, heard, saw, smelled, tasted was the possibility of temptation. It was all around him, just begging for a push. All the discord he could sow just by standing up and asking the wrong person to dance! All the havoc he could wreak by interrupting the wrong couples! And the coffeeshop woman, if only he could use the right coded phrase to completely scandalize her! 

Crowley had never gone so long without trying to cause trouble before. True, he usually only bothered with moving violations in the Bentley and various minor temptations of the angel -- closing the shop early, trying a trendy new restaurant, abandoning a wretched play at intermission, or opening one last (or second to last) bottle of wine. But ever since Crowley had moved in, the angel had been aggressively hospitable to his house guest, offering up countless ideas to amuse and occupy the demon; any and all tempting was done by the angel. It had built up past the point where regular wickedness wouldn't suffice.

It was too much, he realized with a grimace. He had gotten lazy since moving to the bookshop, hadn't bothered to let off some demonic steam and now of all places and times he was fit to burst. He needed to get out. He had to get away before he ruined things between the angel and the neighborhood. 

Mumbling some lame excuse to whoever might be listening, he got up and walked out the door.

* * *

Aziraphale finished his apologies and his partner accepted them although he did not attempt to push his luck by asking her to stick with him for one more song. 

He had already noticed another couple -- Rochelle and Bethany -- who always danced together even though both were women, and he wondered if two men could also get away with that and whether Crowley might like to try it. The rules regarding what was allowed or acceptable for the different genders at different times and in different places has always proved a little confusing to the angel who didn't have a gender in the strictest human sense of the concept.

He looked around the crowded store for the familiar head of flaming red hair, but could not find his friend. He frowned. It was unlikely that Crowley was in the bathroom since the demon had no real use for it, but Aziraphale decided that he might as well check. 

As he walked past the cash register, Patrick's mother waved him closer. She told him that, "Mr. Crowley said to tell you that nothing is wrong but he was going back to your shop."

Aziraphale blinked. "He what?" Had it really been a half-hour? 

"He looked a little tired to me, but I think he's fine," she elaborated. "If I thought he was unwell, I would have told you sooner."

"Ah, well, yes," he fidgeted. "I'll just go home and check on him."

It was a short walk, but long enough for Aziraphale to consider a large number of negative scenarios. When he finally reached the bookstore, he could hear music pouring out of the seams, and it only got louder when he opened the door. 

It was no recording of music he owned, but it was very much in keeping with the songs from the dance lesson. He crossed through the front room and to the back. There, he saw a sight that stopped him in his tracks. 

It was Crowley dancing. 


	2. A Demon's Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation accomplished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (waggly eyebrows)

Crowley was dancing. He had removed his jacket and had undone a few buttons on his shirt. His glasses were cast aside and his eyes were screwed shut. His body was moving to the rhythm and Aziraphale realized how foolish it was to suggest that dancing might make the demon feel uncomfortable. Indeed, there was a sort of ecstasy in Crowley's face that made it difficult for the angel to gaze upon. 

Of course, dropping his eyes slightly only made the sinuous movements of Crowley's body more apparent. His limbs seemed to move independently of each other and yet contradictorily they formed a cohesive whole choreography. And his torso and hips! Aziraphale knew that Crowley could be a snake but it had been a while and the angel had misplaced that fact, but the mesmerizing undulations brought it all back. And the demon's hands, they were everywhere. He was touching himself --

No! That was not the right phrase, Aziraphale chastised himself with a thought that sounded very much like the demon. Touching oneself was an idiomatic expression that meant something very specific. Crowley was very clearly not doing that but he somehow gave the impression of it. Fingers raked through his hair then stroked down his face. Hands grasped his shoulder then traced down his chest and slid across his waist, before grabbing his hips and pushing down to his thighs and then making the same journey in reverse. 

Aziraphale should have said something -- coughed, gasped, anything -- but he stood there perfectly silent and immobile until the song faded to a close. With nothing to dance to, the demon's eyes shot open and he suddenly realized he was not alone.

"Zira!" he exclaimed and leapt a little in shock at being watched. The sound was even louder given the absence of music. "What are, what are you doing home so early?"

The angel blinked a few times to clear his head of any afterimages. He had come home with a head full of concerns and it was impossible to remember a single one of them right now. "I, I heard that you weren't feeling well so I wanted to see how you are, if there's anything I can do for you."

Another song started up on the cellphone but Crowley silenced it with a glare. Now that he was no longer dancing, however, he could feel the demonic itch returning. He needed to get the temptation out of his system but first he needed to explain matters with Aziraphale. 

"Sorry, Angel," he apologized, fidgeting. "I had to get out of there before I did something awful." 

"Something awful?" repeated Aziraphale. "What's wrong?"

"I don't mean to be awful, but it's been a while since I caused any real mischief. Have you ever gone so long without doing a holy miracle or some other act of goodness that your system can't take it anymore? With Hell and me not exactly on speaking terms, I haven't bothered to act wicked or engage in temptations in a while and right now it feels like my skin is going to peel off and I have no idea what will come crawling out. If I had stayed any longer in that place with all those humans just begging for a little evil, I couldn't be responsible for my actions, and I know those people are your friends, so I had to get away. But even now, I still feel like, like I need to do something."

That was an uncharacteristically wordy and forthright explanation from the demon. Now that the words were said, Aziraphale could clearly see that his friend was bothered, almost incandescent, that his yellow eyes were burning with an unholy light. Crowley had been on his best behavior since he settled into the spare room and neither had given it more thought, but it appeared that the demon's nature was asserting itself now and there was nothing else but to appease it somehow.

"What can I do to help?" Aziraphale asked calmly. He was an angel; angels helped people all the time. He had been helping Crowley since before the Arrangement was codified; surely he could help him now.

"I don't know," the demon whined. "I just need to do something awful."

"Well, I suppose you could do something awful to me," Aziraphale offered. "I'm an angel. I can take it." It had to be preferable to letting a demon loose in London. Besides, Crowley's idea of harmless mischief was to shut down the Tube or to bring down London's entire cell phone network; these were not the sort of pranks that directly murdered anyone but they caused a large amount of panic and unrest which led to real crimes. 

"You would do that for me?" Crowley asked, suddenly standing far too close, his fingers already tucking under the lapels of the angel's waistcoat and gripping tightly. Aziraphale had taken off his coat even before going to the coffeeshop, but he could only shed so many layers at once without feeling drafty. 

"Of course, my dear. What are friends for?"

Immediately he had cause to regret those words. The demon pushed him roughly against the wall and held him there. 

"Of courssse," came a sibilant hiss. "Friendss. And why ssso many layerss, Angel? Mussst make it hard to dance in all that. Too warm to move properly. Aren't you too hot, Angel?" As he spoke, he ran his hands up and down Aziraphale's front, plucking at buttons but not bothering to unfasten them. 

The unexpected contact left Aziraphale feeling vulnerable and unbalanced, like he didn't know what or where Crowley was going to touch next. He didn't know whether he needed to defend himself against a physical attack or simply fend off criticism about his attire. Somehow he shook his head in response to the question. "N-no, I'm fine," he said weakly. 

"I have been danssing, Angel, and I'm feeling quite warm," Crowley told him. "Here, sssee for yoursself." With that, the demon pressed his body forward, trapping the angel against the wall. Effectively pinned, Aziraphale gave no resistance when Crowley grabbed his hand and wrapped it around his neck. 

Clearly, Aziraphale was supposed to notice temperature, the heat emanating from the bare skin on Crowley's neck, but there were other sensations that were clamouring for attention first. As a celestial being who never really bothered with that sort of thing before, it was overwhelming.

"Do you feel that, Angel?" Crowley asked in a low voice. "I am burning up. How can you dance and sstill act ssso coolly, as if butter won't melt in your mouth." He traced the line of Aziraphale's jaw then brushed his thumb against those lips which Aziraphale had failed to purse. In fact, his mouth was currently hanging open in shock.

Crowley pressed against him again, shifting so that certain parts connected better than others. "I wonder," he growled, brushing his nose along the outer curl of the angel's ear, "if I would melt in that mouth of yourss."

Instantly, Aziraphale's mind was flooded with an image of Crowley, face wrinkled in the same ecstasy he had shown while dancing. 

That was too much. Aziraphale jerked his head back and knocked it into the wall hard enough to see stars. When his sight cleared, he realized that Crowley was now longer pressing up against him as before although he was leaning on him with his forehead resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. The demon was panting slightly while a shudder was lazily making its way through his body. 

As the tremors subsided, Crowley blinked and looked about him. His yellow eyes were lit with their usual animation but no longer glowing with demonic fire. If anything, he seemed perhaps a little drained and embarrassed by the events that had led to him hovering over his friend. "That was..." he said hoarsely then shuddered one last time. "I feel better now. The pressure is gone. Thank you, Angel." There was relief in his voice, and exhaustion.

"What was that?" Aziraphale couldn't help but ask. His tone was unnecessarily strident and he told himself to say no more until he didn't sound so upset. He had invited that, that, whatever that was; it would be petty to protest it now.

"That was a temptation," the demon explained although the angel should have known such things by now. "It doesn't need to work so long as I try hard enough. The effort is what counts, and that's where I've been lacking lately. Why? Did I go too far?"

That wasn't like any previous temptation Aziraphale had ever known, but he kept that thought to himself. "No, no, dear boy," he replied without giving himself away, "you just caught me a little flat-footed. But it's over now. You've made your little temptation and I've thwarted you. All's well that ends well, and that sort of thing."

The angel shut his mouth and finally pursed his lips. That short speech had started off fine, but he could feel it getting away from him. He could afford to look a little ridiculous; Crowley no doubt expected it by now. But he didn't want to expose just how successful that temptation had been. 

They had been dancing around each other since well before their business Arrangement and Aziraphale still felt like he didn't know the moves, that he was too clumsy to take a step. It had always been forbidden with them being on opposite sides, but the pull had always been there waxing and waning based on too many factors to count. Now was different but he still had no idea how. He didn't know what he could do and was still too afraid to try to find out. Old habits die hard, after all. 

Crowley looked at him, then quickly looked away as if he understood clearly what the angel was thinking in that tense silence. 

"Well," he said, pushing away from the wall. It should have been a languid, fluid movement, but it came off as jerky and uncomfortable. "If it's all the same to you, I'm going to bed now."

He might have said more but he chose not to. Instead, he stiffly retreated up the stairs without waiting for Aziraphale's usual, cheery _goodnight_. 

The angel, unfortunately, was too busy gripping the wall to say anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, is it even GO fan fiction if there's not a wall scene?
> 
> I hope you are enjoying it so far.


	3. The New Medium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deciding not to talk about it, the pair try to develop a new normal.

Aziraphale did not waste his nighttime hours with sleep. There was usually enough to do in keeping up with his paperwork as well as a token effort at keeping the accounts for the shop. And reading; he spent lifetimes reading.

He had made a point not to fall behind on his paperwork even now, _especially_ now. He wasn't exactly on speaking terms with the head office at the moment but he had no idea how long that would last, or whether Heaven would eventually choose to reconcile with him or cast him out. If his paperwork was in order, at least there would be one less thing to hold against him. 

But after Crowley had thrown him against a wall, he couldn't focus on anything. Thankfully, it was not a concussion that had him so distracted. But perhaps a medical emergency would be preferable to his present agitation. 

_I wonder if I would melt in that mouth of yours._

Aziraphale rubbed his forehead and pushed away the folder of forms. The minor miracle of Patrick's successful dance class would have to be documented some other day. For all his love of the written word, he couldn't string a sentence together tonight if his immortality depended on it. 

Crowley's temptation had left an indelible mark. Aziraphale supposed he was mostly to blame for the need that had built up in the demon, struggling so hard to be a good host, to make Crowley feel like a welcome and wanted guest that the demon had no cause or opportunity to blow off a little steam. And Aziraphale had offered himself as victim. 

_You could do something awful to me. I'm an angel. I can take it._

Aziraphale knew his appreciation of human food and drink was a weakness. It was natural to assume that Crowley was going to appeal to his epicurean tastes when he had done it so often before. But the temptation that followed had been unprecedented. And Aziraphale's reaction to it was even harder to describe. 

They needed to talk about it but not tonight. Crowley had gone to bed immediately after, had practically turned tail and fled the scene before Aziraphale could wrap his head around what had happened. 

Crowley had been remarkably quiet in his room that night. Aziraphale had occasionally prowled the upstairs hall, foolishly thinking that whatever words needed to be said would magically come to him as soon as the conversation started. Angels could do that -- open their mouths and have the perfect phrase pour out. 

Outside the room he intentionally stepped on every creaky floorboard, pausing occasionally to whisper the demon's name. He was not loud enough to wake a sleeping Crowley, but if the demon was awake and willing to talk…

If the demon was awake and willing to talk, he wouldn't be hiding in his bedroom. 

But then again, it wasn't as if Aziraphale knew what to say. 

After an entire night of thinking about it, he still didn't know.

* * *

An awkwardness hung between them the next day. Aziraphale tried to say something only to lose his courage. Crowley was more taciturn than usual. They went to lunch as they always did, then took a brisk stroll through the nearest park, then went back to the bookshop all without meeting each other's eye. Then Crowley announced that he had errands to run and would be gone the rest of the day. The angel shouldn't wait on him for dinner. 

Aziraphale didn't bother eating that night. He didn't need to, and Crowley's company was more of a treat than what was on his plate. He stayed awake, puttering around in the backroom, still unable to focus on work. The lack of communication, the unsettledness of the situation left him anxious. 

Crowley didn't come back that night. At least, Aziraphale didn't see him return, and there was no human way that Crowley could have returned without walking past him. But when he flipped the sign on the front door from closed to open in the morning, the Bentley was in its accustomed spot. A few hours later, Aziraphale knocked on Crowley's bedroom door out of habit and hope, and heard the usual collection of noises that signalled the demon working his way through his waking routine. 

When the stairs creaked under the demon's descent, Aziraphale locked the front door and flipped the sign back to closed. 

"I'm going to have to skip lunch today," Crowley announced, still in motion. The quicker he left, the less time there would be to discuss things.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, his face falling and his voice laced with disappointment. "Oh, but you will be back in time for dinner tonight, yes? It feels pointless to eat without company."

"I can't promise that." 

The angel huffed in response. "Then at least tell me that you aren't pulling one of your disappearing acts," he said. "If this is in response to two nights ago --"

Crowley actually hissed in reply. Aziraphale had hit the nail on the proverbial head. 

"If it is," the angel repeated with more confidence, "then I am willing to negotiate. Let us parley."

Crowley stood stock still for so long that Aziraphale finally realized he must be blinking behind those dark glasses. "What?" he said at last. "What is there to negotiate? How are you so calm?"

"Dear Boy, had you vanished right after it happened, it would have been a relief," the angel admitted. "I wouldn't know what to do with you otherwise. But you've given me an extra day to think about it. And the truth is we're our own side now, just the two of us. Without you here, I'd be lost in short order. I didn't have _dinner_ yesterday," he added piteously. The angel was not known to skip a meal.

Again Crowley was silent, rearranging the words in his head into interesting and contradictory combinations. "So what does that mean?"

Aziraphale sighed because he had no idea. He was effectively giving Crowley all the cards in the hopes of keeping him at the table. "Well, do you want to talk about it?"

"No." The answer was quick and emphatic.

To be honest, Aziraphale had been expecting that. "Do you want to pretend it didn't happen?"

"Yes," came another terse and definitive reply.

The angel had already schooled his features. There was nothing to do but hold that pose until he could nod in understanding. "Then that's what we'll do," he announced. "And now, can I tempt you with some lunch?"

Regardless of how it ended, Aziraphale had planned that last line. No matter what, he wasn't letting go.

"If it's all the same to you, Angel," said Crowley, and for a moment Aziraphale was worried, "you should leave the tempting to me for a while."

Aziraphale blinked rapidly but otherwise attempted not to betray how bold that statement was in light of the fact that they had just agreed not to mention it. 

"Very well," he said, the embodiment of agreeability. "Where would you like to go?"

Crowley rolled his shoulders as if thinking about it. Then he jerked his head towards the front door. "Get in the car, Angel, and I'll show you."

* * *

They went to an arcade. 

The flashing lights and cacophonous noises were momentarily overwhelming to the angel who clung briefly to the demon's sleeve before pulling back and clasping his own hands for comfort. Crowley gave him an unfathomable look and asked if he wanted any credits for the machines.

"Credits?" Aziraphale repeated in a daze. The shock of sight and sound was fading, but he was discovering the smells of stale food and bodies, and the tug of a stickiness underfoot. 

"Angel, have you ever been to an arcade before?"

"Of course!" he sputtered, shaking himself. "It's just been a while."

Crowley's eyebrows raised themselves expressively over the top of his glasses. "Well, if you don't want to play, let's find a spot to watch," he said, starting to amble. "It won't do to stand in the aisle like a pair of statues."

"What are you going to do?" Aziraphale asked as he followed, wondering whether this afternoon was going to be unpleasant or merely awkward. 

Crowley made a thoughtful noise. "Not sure yet," he admitted. "It'll come to me."

Aziraphale watched in silence, soaking it all up. The crowd was not very thick, just tourists mostly, but there was a steady parade of humanity to watch. 

Then he saw it: Crowley sneered and wiggled a finger. Two loud and brash people knocked into one another, sending a paper cup full of icy drink to the already filthy floor. The outrage was mutual and an argument escalated quickly. Just before the first punch was thrown, however, the angel intervened with a miracle of his own. The manager appeared to cool the heated tempers and separate them. They stomped off to their respective corners with warning glares in their eyes. 

"You brought in the manager? Really? That was weak," Crowley criticized him. 

"You did that on purpose!" Aziraphale accused. 

Crowley smirked happily and scanned the scene for another victim. 

They played like that for hours, the demon executing evil miracles for the angel to thwart. Occasionally, Aziraphale let one slip past, like when some truly wretched person got his comeuppance. Occasionally, he bested Crowley thoroughly, like when a darling girl lost her money only to find a twenty pound note. It was fun, almost a game as the day grew long and the tourists were replaced by students.

Maybe more like a game than he realized, as Crowley announced their scores while they were walking out into the evening. "Twenty-eight to thirteen, Angel. I win."

"You were counting?" Aziraphale asked. "You didn't tell me you were counting."

Crowley grunted. "Maybe next time you'll try harder."

Crowley took him to a nearby chip shop for dinner. It was truly terrible -- the only thing that kept it in business was no doubt its proximity to numerous tourist traps such as the arcade -- but they were able to freely converse about the people they had seen, and if somebody committed a frivolous miracle to improve the quality of their food, nobody else minded. 

They made their way back to the bookshop, and from there to the comfy sofa in the backroom. Two bottles later, Crowley sauntered to bed while Aziraphale turned to his paperwork. All those miracles at the arcade would need to be documented. 

* * *

A few days later, Crowley again commandeered the schedule and refused to say where they were going or what they would do. He drove to a parking complex and left the Bentley behind as they continued on foot. Aziraphale chatted unceasingly, trying to prompt the demon into giving something away. 

At last, they found themselves at the end of a queue and Crowley seemed content to wait there. Aziraphale looked around, still trying to figure out their destination. After the arcade, he was expecting something similar, but then he looked up. 

"Crowley!" he squeaked, grabbing the demon's sleeve in alarm. "You're not serious."

Crowley only smirked. "Angel, you're not afraid of heights, are you?"

"Don't, don't be ridiculous. Why would you think that?" Aziraphale tutted then slowly calmed himself. The London Eye loomed over them, slowly rotating observation capsules over the city. "It's just, are we going all the way to the very top, or I hear they have an observation deck halfway up."

Crowley only grunted in acknowledgement, committing to nothing.

* * *

"Alright, Angel, eyes closed," the demon commanded.

"I don't see why --"

"Exactly," Crowley cut off his protest. "You shouldn't see. I want the view from the top to be a surprise for you, and that won't happen if you're peeking the whole time. Now, are you going to cooperate willingly or do I need to take drastic measures?"

They were alone in a capsule that looked spacious enough to carry two dozen people. Aziraphale didn't know if Crowley had miracled their privacy or if he had merely paid extra for it. 

"All right," he huffed and made a show of closing and covering his eyes. "But it seems like a waste to me if I miss the first half of the ride."

"Oh, trust me," the demon said encouragingly, "the grand reveal is worth it."

"How do you know?" asked the angel. "Have you done this before?"

"As a matter of fact I have. I took Warlock up here when he was ten. It made quite the impression."

"Really?" Aziraphale questioned. "I don't remember that but I suppose the gardener doesn't get invited to that sort of thing. I wonder how Warlock is doing? We haven't seen him since his birthday and that was months ago."

Crowley made a noise. He had thought of his former charge when he had made the reservations for this outing, but he hadn't acted on the urge to contact the boy yet. He had been waiting for the opportunity to mention it to Aziraphale, and as they had another ten minutes or so until he would let the angel open his eyes, he talked about the boy and how he wanted to see him again. Just to check on him, he stressed, not due to any warm feelings for the child.

"I think it would be splendid to see him again," Aziraphale said. "Although I am not sure if we should appear as we are now or if it would be better to pretend to be Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis again, at least for a little while."

Crowley had thought about that too and had already decided to dress as the familiar nanny when they saw each other again, but he also knew he could not just show up at the Dowling residence for old times sake and be granted unfettered access to the boy. 

"All right, Angel," he said. "Time's up. You can look now."

Aziraphale obediently removed his hands and opened his eyes. The very next moment, his jaw went slack and his wings popped out instinctively as he realized how high they really were. The capsule was quite spacious with just the two of them so his wings didn't knock into anything but Crowley still fell down laughing. 

It took Aziraphale a few moments to wrestle his wings back into hiding over the understandably natural urge to keep him aloft at this height. When he did, Crowley was still chuckling to himself. 

"I am glad you find this amusing," he said in clipped tones, a little hurt at the prank. 

"Oh, come now, Angel," said Crowley, "it could have been worse. You could have done this with a ten-year-old son of an American diplomat and his security guard as well as whoever else got crammed into this can with you."

Aziraphale looked anew at his companion. "That happened to you?"

Crowley shrugged. "I had to miracle away everyone's memory of it but that brief look on Warlock's face was priceless."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you are enjoying it so far!


	4. Sucker Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets suckered into dancing and Aziraphale paid the price.

Wednesday evening rolled up as the Bentley parked in front of the bookshop. 

"Oh, look! The coffeeshop is having more dancing lessons," Aziraphale observed pleasantly. 

Crowley glared at him, his innocent act not persuading the demon that it had all been a serendipitous accident that brought them home in time for another lesson. 

"Angel," he began.

"You don't have to come," said his companion quickly. "I understand that this isn't your scene. Go home and get ready to visit Warlock tomorrow and I'll be back before you notice. I don't even plan on dancing. I think I'll just watch and show support that way."

Crowley's head lolled to one side and a growl quietly emerged from his throat. The angel was oddly effective at guilting him into things.

* * *

"Mr. Fell! And Mr. Crowley!" greeted Bernice. "So good to see you again. Have you come for the dancing?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid," said Aziraphale. "But I would love a hot chocolate." He turned to Crowley who ground out a request for an espresso. 

The barista made quick work of their order and the two sat down just in time for Patrick to call the dancers to form two lines. As before, there was a shortage of men, even with Rochelle joining their number. Patrick scanned the tables for another man to join them. Crowley slouched into obscurity while Aziraphale sat primly upright like a beacon. 

"Mr. Fell!" called Patrick from the front of the shop. "Will you be dancing tonight?"

Aziraphale blushed. He tittered and demurred. He couldn't possibly. He almost relented. He really shouldn't. He deflected. He pouted. He hemmed and hawed. And just when the demon thought that the angel would give in, he said, "But Crowley is a tremendously good dancer. You had better ask him instead."

Crowley sat in a heap as his bones resettled. The angel had just thrown him under the proverbial bus and no act of contrition was going to have this end well. 

While Aziraphale dithered out a pointless apology, Patrick asked Crowley to join the dancers. There was a large enough crowd urging him that the demon complied with the request, but not before hissing, "You are going to pay for this, Angel."

Aziraphale tried to smile encouragingly as his friend sauntered to the front but he felt a frisson of worry at what form his comeuppance might take. He took a sip of his cocoa to wash down the lump in his throat. 

Crowley behaved remarkably well during the introduction of the basic steps. He was bored and terribly put upon and couldn't be bothered to pay attention but he didn't disrupt the lesson. And when it came time to put the steps together and dance with a partner, he was sublime. In fact, it became clear very quickly that he knew far more about dancing than Patrick had ever taught. His partner, who had never really danced before but decided to give it a go, was practically transported.

"Wow, Mr. Crowley could teach my Patrick a thing or two," said Bernice as she stopped by the table to collect the empty cups. 

"Yes," agreed Aziraphale, eyes fixed on his friend. "He's rather good at it."

Crowley switched partners with a new song and a new step. The new woman was equally enchanted with him, dancing better than she had thought possible. So it was with the third woman.

However, the third woman had not come alone. Her _good friend_ had decided to sit out of the lesson but felt a spike of jealousy when Marika was paired with the best dancer. The friend reversed his previous decision and now attempted to cut in but Crowley was having none of it. If the bloke had actually wanted to dance, he shouldn't have waited until now. 

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale mumbled to himself as he hastily made his way over to the dance floor before a fight broke out. He moved faster with every step but he was only blurting out a breathless, "Crowley, Dear," when the first punch was thrown. Luckily his face got there just in time to intercept it and he collapsed like a straw man. 

* * *

"Are you sure you're all right, Mr. Fell?" Bernice asked as she hovered like a mother hen.

"Perfectly," he said as he pressed the bag of ice against his split lip. "Just a scratch. I hardly notice it." This was only true because he had made the conscious decision not to feel pain. It was perhaps a frivolous miracle, but he would deal with the consequences later. 

"And you don't want to --"

"No, absolutely not! I don't want to press charges or involve the authorities or any such nonsense," he said more firmly. "I'm just sorry it ruined everybody's evening when we were all having such a nice time."

Crowley grunted in disapproval. "Angel, only you would apologise for your face getting in the way of someone's fist."

"I'm not apologising _to him,_ " Aziraphale started to pout then thought better of it. "I'm sorry I didn't get there in time to calm him down before the punch was thrown."

"Oh, Mr. Fell," tutted Bernice, "don't give that man another thought, just a bad apple. He's not welcome in this shop any more. Not welcome on the whole street, if I have anything to say about it."

"I don't want to ruin his reputation," Aziraphale protested. "Maybe, under different circumstances --"

"Angel, some people are not worth saving," Crowley told him. 

Aziraphale glared in disagreement. He had to believe that salvation was attainable by anyone while Crowley had a long history of personal experience that proved otherwise. This was an old argument that predated the Great Flood, and they weren't about to resolve it where they were. 

"Just think of the good that came out of this instead," Bernice suggested. "That poor girl had her eyes opened tonight. The way she carried on, you could tell she had no idea what he was really like. I'm sure _some women_ like a he-man --" her tone conveyed a total disrespect for those women and those men -- "but if my Brian had ever thought to behave like that, finding offense where none was given, treating me like property, starting fights and hurting innocent old men -- that would have been the end of it."

The young woman -- Marika was her name -- had been stunned by her friend's behavior. It was only as she stood there listening to him justify his actions, the possessiveness, the ownership in his voice, that she realized what her friend expected of their relationship. They had been spending a lot of time together lately and she thought he was fun and attentive. She might have agreed to date him, might have dated him for a few months before she saw his nasty side, and then what? Or she might have not agreed to date him at all and would have dealt with his ugly sense of entitlement sooner. Any which way Bernice looked at it, that young woman got a lucky break tonight. 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, but the demon's expression was carefully hidden behind his glasses. 

"If you say so," he said, knowing he was already persuaded by it. "But Patrick's dance lessons!" he commiserated.

"Nonsense! Don't you worry about it," Bernice scolded him. "That sort of custom we don't need. Patrick will be fine, no matter what." She then turned to the redhead. "Can I leave the patient in your capable hands, Mr. Crowley?"

There was a whisker of pause while Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure."

* * *

Crowley poured two glasses of scotch and passed one to the angel.

"Drink," he commanded. At Aziraphale's initial balk, he explained, "Alcohol's a disinfect."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but took a sip, then winced. He hadn't miracled away all of the pain.

"Well I hope it was worth it," said Crowley, taking off his glasses and peering at the lip. 

"Just how much of this did you plan?" Aziraphale asked, a little angry. Was this the payback the demon intended?

"Right up to the point where Major Twat threw the first punch," the demon answered honestly. "I could see the aggression rolling off that guy in waves, and I knew as soon as I picked his girl that he'd fight me."

"You intentionally started that!" the angel summarized as an accusation.

Crowley grunted. The angel wasn't wrong. "And you heard what your friend said. I saved that poor Marika from ending up however temporarily dating him. Given his penchant for beating up on strangers, who's to say whether he would have hit her before she was rid of him. Or that he would have gone away quietly when she wanted nothing more to do with him.

"Oh." It certainly put a different spin on things to think of it like that.

"And I wasn't planning on letting him, you know, actually _hit_ me," he continued. "I planned on dancing around him for a bit, show the crowd that I was clearly the victim in this scenario, before braining him with a coffee mug. And maybe let him hit me once in the chest or the arm, someplace I could cover with a shirt so no one would notice if I healed unusually fast."

He paused for another pointed look at Aziraphale's lip. The angel took another drink.

"You were not meant to get in the way," Crowley said, and Aziraphale thought he heard something akin to affection in his voice. "And you certainly were not supposed to bleed in public, you stupid angel. Now there's nothing to be done but go around with a split lip for a few days in case anybody checks on you. And you can be sure that Bernice will be here bright and early tomorrow to see how you are doing."

Aziraphale started to pout but ended up wincing. Then he took another sip of his drink and winced again. This was going to get old fast. 

Crowley watched and took pity on him. "Hold still," he warned and grabbed the angel's chin firmly.

"What, what are you doing?" Aziraphale asked nervously.

"I am _trying_ to help," Crowley said scoldingly. "Now quit squirming."

Brooking no more argument, the demon leaned in, puckered his lips, and blew a warm breath over Aziraphale's injury.

The skin heated and grew tingly. Unbeknownst to himself, Aziraphale fluttered his eyes shut and let the sensation wash over him.

"There," the demon said at last, retreating slightly. "That should do."

Aziraphale blinked like a sleeper waking. "That should do what?" he asked, brushing his fingers over his lip.

"A little healing and a bit of demonic glamour," Crowley said. "Makes you look like a badass without having to, you know, actually get beat up. I left it a smidge sensitive in case you forgot and started to act suspiciously unaffected, but it shouldn't bother you much anymore."

"Thank you, Crowley," said Aziraphale. His lips still tingled. 

"Don't mention it," he said, already turning his attention away. "Besides, you still haven't paid me back for making me dance in the first place."

"I was hit," Aziraphale reminded him, "in the face."

"Not by me," the demon grumbled before sinking into the sofa. 

"Do you want to hit me?" The thought gave Aziraphale pause. Crowley didn't get violent unless circumstances were extraordinary.

Crowley levelled a glare at him. "No, of course not. But you aren't getting away with it that easily. Not when one of us can miracle away the worst of it."

"Do you want to…" He stopped himself from completing that question. He was going to say _tempt me_ , but the words died in his throat. Aziraphale knew that he hadn't gotten over the experience, not if the warmth in his cheeks from just the look Crowley was giving him now was any indication. And Crowley certainly hadn't broached the subject, not after agreeing quickly and emphatically to pretend it didn't happen. And they'd had a remarkably fun week once they had put it behind them, and Aziraphale didn't want to return to that awkwardness and avoidance again.

The demon's yellow eyes narrowed as the silence lengthened. "Do I want to what?" he prompted.

Aziraphale could only shrug and mentally flail for a change of subject.

"Sit down, Angel," said Crowley when no answer was forthcoming. "Your hovering is making me nervous."

He sat and took a healthy pull from his drink to keep from having to say anything. The lip hurt, but it was more of a reminder than actual pain. 

"If you must know, I have yet to decide what to do with you, Angel," said Crowley as he settled even deeper into the cushions. It was nearly impossible to drink from his glass at that angle, but he was devilishly flexible. "I figure part of your punishment is the waiting and the not knowing."

Aziraphale huffed. There was nothing else for it. Crowley would spring it on him whenever he was least expecting it and there was no getting around it. 

"You're tormenting me," concluded Aziraphale, feeling none too pleased.

"Maybe." Crowley's grin was positively Cheshire. "Is it working?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and looked away pointedly.

"Oh, Angel, don't be a spoilsport," the demon chided, pulling himself up into a seated position like a puppet on strings. He dangled over his knees as he leaned forward. "I did something for you. You'll do something for me. It's the same arrangement we've had for centuries. There's nothing new."

"I like to think that if I didn't want to help you, I didn't have to. If you ever asked me to do something against my conscience --"

"And I haven't," Crowley said. "Or at least you haven't agreed to it." There had been a century-long rift involving holy water, but that was past them now. "I'm not going to corrupt you or cause you to betray your conscience, Angel. If Heaven couldn't do it with all their panting for the Apocalypse, one measly demon won't manage it however wily he may be."

Aziraphale softened at that. Crowley was right. He was just teasing, although he was rather good at it. "Well, if you say so."


	5. Nanny Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley dresses up, and the duo learn what the neighbors really think of them.

Contrary to custom, they did not remain together much longer. Crowley had plans to see Warlock the next morning and, if he were going to get up in time, he needed to get to sleep earlier than usual. One drink was all they allowed themselves that night before Crowley made his way upstairs and Aziraphale turned to his paperwork, occasionally pausing to press his fingers to his lip. 

The next morning, Aziraphale discreetly opened the stop (flipping the lock but not the sign). He puttered about, dusting and sweeping, and if the shop was miraculously cleaner than it should be, who kept track of such things?

He heard the floor creak as Crowley woke and began to prepare for the day. It was strange to think that the demon could get up so early on his own power while he depended upon the angel to wake him most mornings. Aziraphale made a mental note to ask Crowley later if he wanted to change their current routine. 

Eventually, the steps groaned gently from Crowley's weight as he descended. Aziraphale's cheery greeting died halfway through his lips as the demon came into view. 

From hat to heels, Crowley was dressed as Nanny Ashtoreth, complete with the gimmicky umbrella and red lipstick. 

"Crow-- Nanny Ashtoreth," Aziraphale choked out. "You look…" He wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm taking Warlock to brunch," said Crowley, putting on his gloves, "then I said we were going to a museum but really I'm taking him to the arcade, then pizza and ice cream or a candy shop. His sweet tooth is just about as bad as yours and nowhere near as refined. I'll be home in time for dinner but don't expect me to eat much."

"Dressed like that?" Aziraphale asked weakly.

"I can't exactly show up as Anthony J. Crowley, claim to be the former nanny, and expect people to hand over the ambassador's son."

"But you're leaving the shop dressed like that?" Aziraphale expounded. What would the neighbors think? "Couldn't you just miracle your outfit once you're there?"

"What? A frivolous miracle? What would the head office say?" Crowley looked at him with condescension. "Angel, it's fine. I prefer it this way. Stockings never sit right when I miracle them on."

"Oh, all right, Dear. If you insist," said Aziraphale, feeling prudish. 

Just then the front door jangled open.

"Hello!" called a familiar voice from the front of the store. "Mr. Fell! Are you in the back?"

Before Aziraphale could fret aloud, Bernice walked into the backroom, carrying a disposable drink tray with two cups, her monologue continuing as she moved.

"I wanted to check on you this morning after the incident last night, make sure you were doing well and hadn't changed your mind about pressing charges or whatnot. So I brought a little something from my shop for you and Mmm-ary Crowley," she stuttered. Bernice had had every intention of saying _Mr. Crowley_ , but when she caught sight of him, her brain immediately began screaming _Mary Poppins_ and her mouth had no real idea which name to go with.

"It's Anthony, actually," Crowley said nonchalantly, plucking his drink from the tray. "But now I must be off. Eleven-year-old boys are terribly impatient creatures. And thank you for the treat, Bernice. I know I will need it this morning."

With no further ado, he left the shop, his heels knocking rhythmically on the wood floor, the door jingling merrily as he passed. Aziraphale just stared after him for a moment. There was no point in miraculously distracting everyone's attention on the street if Bernice was standing and stuttering in his wake. 

"Oh, Mr. Crowley, oh, Mr. Fell," she started to babble. "Oh, my apologies, I just never suspected, I mean, it never occurred to me, that is, Mr. Poppins, I mean, Mary Crowley, I mean --"

"It's Julie Andrews actually," Aziraphale said without thinking it through. "He loves Julie Andrews, anything she's ever done: Mary Poppins, Victor/Victoria, even the Princess Diaries." 

Aziraphale was angelically bad at lying. Something about disobeying God, even if those ten commandments were aimed at humans, was naturally challenging for him to do. His voice and mannerisms gave away all sorts of tells. He looked and sounded uncomfortable. 

"Really?" Bernice noticed none of the other's discomfort, only considered his words. She didn't know Crowley well enough to think that Aziraphale was lying although she did find the news to be surprising. "Oh, I fell in love with her in The Sound of Music," she admitted girlishly.

His brain finally caught up with his words briefly. "Not Sound of Music. He didn't like that one," he said, trying to dig himself out. When Crowley heard about this, he'd be even more angry than the dancing from last night. 

The human filed this detail away for later. "And why is he dressed as Julie Andrews today? What was the bit about an 11-year-old boy?"

"Oh, that's Warlock," Aziraphale answered, easing himself onto more honest ground. "You can think of him as Crowley's godson. Mine as well. He's American," he added as if that explained any strangeness. 

"A godson?" she positively cooed. "That's adorable! Is that how you met each other?"

Aziraphale tried to nod his head but abandoned it; he was done with lying this morning. "Not exactly. We've known each other for ages but we practically raised the boy for a few years, Crowley more than I, and he's always had a soft spot for children. We haven't seen Warlock in a while and so Crowley is going to spend the day with him." That was all true, Aziraphale beamed at himself.

"Dressed as Mary Poppins?" Bernice repeated.

"Quite." If the woman didn't accept it by now, nothing short of a miracle would explain it to her. "And have you decided to let Patrick keep his dance class?" he asked in a very deliberate attempt to change the subject.

Bernice frowned. "I woke up Brian before I went to bed last night to tell him what had happened. I figured it'd be best to hear it from me right away and especially as Patrick wasn't home yet in case my husband accidentally said something foolish, and he did. Said he was dead set against any more of Patrick's experiments," she confided. "I see his point: if that is the sort of customer dancing attracts, then we are better off without. But Brian got the worst of his ranting out of his system before Patrick came home and we three were able to talk about it like adults although I'm still a bit tired today and you can only imagine how Brian is doing. Thankfully, there's coffee!

"Oh!" she added with a conspiratorial twinkle. "Patrick escorted that poor young woman home last night, just to make sure she was safe and that nobody followed her if you get my meaning, and I think he has a date with her tomorrow night."

"Really?" Aziraphale felt his eyebrows shoot up encouragingly. "A date?"

"He didn't call it that," she admitted, "but he turned red when I did, so he wants it to be a date which is really all one can hope after a night like that. Honestly, if the only thing that results from those dance classes is a girlfriend for our son, it will be worth the hassle."

She then looked at the angel in alarm. "I mean, of course, excluding your injuries, Mr. Fell! You getting hurt was absolutely terrible, and I'm sure Patrick can meet a nice girl on his own without anybody getting a fat lip."

Aziraphale touched the lip in question. It still tingled slightly every so often -- Crowley's magic must still be at work -- but it didn't hurt and the glamour looked better this morning than when he had checked it the night before. Aziraphale had to hand it to the demon; the wily serpent knew what he was doing. 

"It feels much better this morning," he said. "Crowley took good care of me last night. He…" Aziraphale paused. He couldn't say that Crowley blew air on him. "He gave me some alcohol, as a disinfectant."

Bernice smiled. "I remember when Patrick still came to me whenever he got scrapes," she said fondly. "I'd always kiss it, you know, to make it feel better. I suppose he stopped coming to me when he got too old for such things."

Aziraphale tried to listen attentively but alarm bells were suddenly going off in his head. Crowley hadn't _kissed_ him, but he had leaned in quite close to deliver the healing breath. As a demon, he should have been able to do what was necessary with a snap of the fingers or the blink of the eyes from across the room. But Crowley had deliberately held him by the chin and stood terribly close. And Aziraphale had… had enjoyed it very much in hindsight. 

He blinked in alarm at Bernice. She looked at him expectantly, as if she had asked him a question and was patiently awaiting his reply, unaware that he was a million miles away.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he prompted. In situations like that, it was best not to flounder through it.

"I said that it was a lucky day when you met Mr. Crowley," she said. Before Aziraphale could agree, however, she kept talking. 

Aziraphale stared at her, trying to keep the look of horror from his face.

* * *

When Crowley returned that evening, he looked like he always did, with no sign of Nanny Ashtoreth. He wasted no time in sinking low into the sofa cushions and asking Aziraphale to fetch the alcohol. 

"Are you in the mood for anything in particular?" Aziraphale asked, trying to decide between a bracing cocktail and a mouthy red wine.

"Something with a kick," Crowley grit out, wiggling to get more comfortable. 

"Cocktails it is!" Aziraphale announced. It had been quite the struggle not to start drinking earlier, as soon as Bernice had left the shop.

"Oh, what a day," Crowley moaned. "A good day, lot of fun, lot of mischief, but what a day. I thought he was exhausting when he was younger, but he's worse now. Then again, maybe he was just trying to squeeze in everything in one day. Either way, let's drink."

By now, Aziraphale had brought forth a tray of glasses and a pitcher of refills. He put down the tray and poured a hearty measure in each glass.

Crowley took the first one and had drained it by the time Aziraphale was finished filling the second glass. 

"My, but you're thirsty," the angel observed, sounding a bit high-strung. 

"Would you like to hear about it?" Crowley asked rhetorically, then proceeded to tell him everything that had happened. He only paused in his recitation to refill his glass. As the pitcher miraculously never seemed to empty (although it did slowly transition to straight gin), they had both lost track of how much they'd had to drink in no time at all.

"You will be pleased to know," Crowley added at the end, "that Warlock brought up Brother Francis all on his own. I said I might arrange to bring you to lunch next time and he was amenable, so prepare yourself."

"I'm so pleased you had a good time with him," said Aziraphale primly. "And are you going to ask me about my day?"

Crowley gazed at him impassively. His shades were long gone and his yellow eyes were on full display. "Not really," he admitted. "I figured you'd just tell me, save me the asking. But did anything interesting happen in the shop today? Someone try to make a purchase or do anything equally vulgar?"

"Do you know what Bernice thinks of us?" The words came out more like an accusation than a question.

"Two men living together in Soho?" Crowley drawled under his breath. "I can well imagine." He wondered how the angel had never considered the optics before.

"She… She thinks..." He had been practicing this little speech for most of the day but he had been totally sober then and now he was not. 

"Go on and say it, Angel," Crowley coaxed. "You won't shock me." 

When Crowley had first moved in, he had been clear that he was there temporarily even though that concept could be vastly misinterpreted by immortal beings. In fact, he had counted on that confusion if Aziraphale ever asked him how long he planned to stay. The two of them were on their own side after the failed Apocalypse and, if nothing else, there was safety in numbers. 

They had been on opposite sides since before the invention of time. They had started as untrusting adversaries but became friendly through repeatedly smite-free interactions until the friendship with each other was more substantial than any loyalty they should have felt for their respective head offices. 

Still, it was only a friendly arrangement. They had been skirting an impenetrable line for millennia, advancing only to retreat again. But that line had dissolved with Heaven's and Hell's hopes for the Apocalypse. The old patterns were hard to break after sixty centuries even though nothing enforced those old limitations now. 

Crowley had expected that they would dance along that phantom barrier for a few generations before one of them slipped. At least, that was what he had expected when Aziraphale invited him to stay in the guest room. But time felt like it was accelerating, that they were repeatedly brushing up against the memory of a barrier. Had he not just last week pinned the angel to the wall and tempted them both?

He had been too embarrassed afterwards to address it. In normal times, he would probably have disappeared for decades at least, until some critical assignment from Below sent him careening towards Aziraphale once more. 

But these weren't normal times. Aziraphale had cornered him and offered to just speed through the awkwardness to the point where they had just forgotten about the incident, which would have been terribly uncharacteristic when the angel had lived in fear of their Arrangement being brought to light.

And then last night, the angel had butted in where he didn't belong, getting injured in the process. Had Crowley seen him coming, it never would have gone down that way, but that was the angel -- always blindsiding him one way or another. 

And then Crowley had held his chin and, and nearly kissed him. He hadn't thought they'd be this far in the same year, much less the same half of the century. Was it the constant exposure to humanity, the constant reminder of the brevity of life that increased their pace, not just for Crowley but for Aziraphale as well?

And if the humans thought that the two were a romantic couple, Crowley supposed he would quickly grow accustomed to holding hands in public, or kissing a cheek in farewell outside the shop.

At least he was willing to try so long as the angel didn't protest too vehemently. Just because Crowley felt the acceleration of time didn't mean that Aziraphale was comfortable with it. 

Aziraphale gathered himself. "She thinks you're my live-in nurse."

Had Crowley been drinking, he would surely have spit it out all over the sofa, coffee table, and whatever books were nearby. As it was, he jerked upright and fell off the sofa. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cackle)


	6. Feeble and Decrepit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depressed to find out that he is seen as old instead of merely old-fashioned, Zira shares what he expected the neighbors to think of them. The pair talk about a vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just… we assume that old people look old, but then a glossy celebrity magazine runs an article about how gorgeous (well preserved) some old people are. And if you know someone must be at least 65 but they look 20 years younger, you start to think "good genes" or "healthy living" or even "plastic surgery and hair dye".

"She thinks I'm a nurse!" shrieked the demon when he sprung up from the floor.

"She thinks I'm old and feeble," Aziraphale wailed. "Do I look decrepit to you?"

"Live-in nurse!" Crowley repeated, focusing on himself. "This is a one-bedroom flat. Where does she think I sleep?" He ignored the fact that Adam Young had provided a second bedroom for him after Armageddon didn't happen.

"She doesn't know it only has one bedroom," Aziraphale countered. "And as matters now stand, I do in fact have a spare room."

"And what did she say when you corrected her?" Crowley finally asked after sputtering for a bit.

Aziraphale's mouth hung open but no clever accounting came forth.

"You did set her straight, didn't you?" the demon asked, a pleading note in his voice.

"What was I supposed to tell her?" floundered the angel.

Crowley gaped in stupification. How could the angel do this to him? He was a demon! Demons weren't nurses. They were anti-nurses.

And of all the things Aziraphale could have said, the truth would have set him free.

"How about, 'he's a friend who's staying with me while his flat is renovated'?" He shouted across the room. 

"Oh," said Aziraphale. Then, "Oh! Oh, my dear. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was just so hung up on being feeble and decrepit that I didn't think. And I was already so flustered over the Julie Andrews thing that I quite forgot."

"What Julie Andrews thing?" Did the actress have her own live-in nurse or something?

"Oh, dear," said Aziraphale. "You're not going to like that either. Maybe I am too old." With that, the light in his eyes dimmed a little and he sank, defeated, into his chair.

Crowley decided he wanted to be angry at only one thing at a time right now so he filed away 'Julie Andrews' for later. "Zira," he snapped.

"Do you think I'm old?" the angel asked. "Do I look old to you?"

Crowley pushed his anger into a tight coil in his skull where it would keep until later. It felt almost like a hangover but it gave him the capacity to deal with the existential crisis into which Aziraphale had pitched head-first.

"You look like you've always looked," Crowley replied. By the grimace that flitted across the angel's face, he knew that was the wrong answer. "We're immortal, Angel," he tried again. "We're timeless. We don't get old."

Aziraphale looked about the room with a fresh perspective. The space was clean but shabby. "It's just… I am set in my ways, you know."

Crowley knew. He was set in his own ways too.

"And I suppose I haven't changed my look much in quite a while," the angel continued, taking in the worn appearance of his outfit.

"Your look is classic," Crowley put a positive spin on it.

"My look is _dated_ ," Aziraphale countered. "You've said so yourself once or twice."

"Angel," said Crowley. Then he couldn't think of what to say next. He liked Aziraphale as such a constant, immutable being, the immovable object to his unstoppable force. With the speed at which mortal existence flew by, it was comforting to have an anchor.

"How old do you suppose she thinks I am?"

"I don't know," Crowley shrugged. "How long ago did you meet her?"

"Well, Brian started bringing her around the neighborhood when they were just dating," Aziraphale began. "And I remember the day that Brian's mother told me that he had proposed and Bernice had accepted. I got them a bottle of wine to celebrate and --"

"Hang on," Crowley interrupted. "You've been in the bookshop for how long?"

Aziraphale turned his eyes on him. "You remember my grand opening. You brought me chocolates."

"Angel, that was ages ago," Crowley told him, beginning to realize what was going on. "Surely you've replaced yourself since then?"

"What do you mean by _replaced myself_? Short of getting momentarily discorporated right before the Apocalypse, I've had the same corporation for centuries."

"I mean," Crowley explained, "disappear for a dozen years, come back with a new haircut and wardrobe, and pretend to be your own nephew or something."

"Why would I do that?" Aziraphale asked, clearly not getting it.

Crowley slowly lowered himself back into the sofa. "Stupid angel!" he chastised. "Are the humans supposed to think you are Dorian Gray?" He figured the reference to Wilde would sink in. "Humans are supposed to age. If Bernice has seen you in this shop for thirty years, and knows from talking with her in-laws that you've been there for at least thirty more, and even then it'd been a few years since you would have crawled out of a cradle, how old should she think you are?"

Aziraphale blinked a bit as he did the math. "Oh," he said at last. "Oh, I am an idiot."

Crowley grunted and returned to his cocktail. 

"What am I going to do?" Aziraphale asked after another meditative pause. "Do I need to leave this place? It's been home for two centuries; I was just getting settled in it."

"What are we going to do, Angel," Crowley corrected him. "If you think I'm going to stay here and mind the shop for you while you sow your oats for a decade, you've got another thing coming."

Aziraphale was taken aback by that. "We haven't really travelled together before," he said. "I mean, we each had a habit of turning up to thwart the other for the first few millennia but, what with the Arrangement, we haven't needed to go to the same place for work."

"We were on opposite sides before," Crowley reminded him. "A new side calls for a new Arrangement."

Crowley watched over the rim of his glass as Aziraphale gave it some thought. 

"It would be nice," the angel said at last, "to travel with you, see things together. I always feel like I missed out when you tell me about the places you've been, and I never feel like I do it justice when I try to describe my own adventures. As well as I know you, I'm sure I don't recognize all the little things that you'd appreciate."

The words were very warming and Crowley had to resist the urge to bask in them. He waited for Aziraphale to lift his glass to his lips to deliver his coûp de grace.

"Yes, and it would be absolute malpractice to allow such an old and feeble being to wander around without his nurse."

The angel choked, doing everything in his power to force the alcohol down rather than out. 

"You --" he grit out hoarsely. "You did that on purpose."

Crowley smirked. It felt satisfying to be recognized for a job well done. 

"I'm sorry, Dear," said Aziraphale as his voice returned, "but she caught me off guard and my mind went blank. I had thought she was going in a different direction."

"What direction did you think she was going in?" Crowley groused.

"Well, it's just," he fumbled. "You know... two men, living together."

Crowley said nothing. He didn't move, he didn't blink. He wouldn't do anything to put words in his angel's mouth right now.

"And, and then she said, 'live-in,' and I thought for sure the next word would be, you know, would be…"

He looked to Crowley for help but there was no support from that quarter, only a golden stare. The angel looked away before he blushed too deeply.

"Boyfriend!" The word came out way too loud and rushed but Aziraphale had said it. 

"And?" Crowley said by way of congratulations.

"And? And she obviously saw it differently." Honestly, Aziraphale had no idea what the demon was after.

"And what were you planning to tell her if she thought we were together like that?" Crowley spelled it out. 

Aziraphale took a healthy swig of his drink, stalling for time. When his glass was empty, Crowley was waiting patiently and prompted him to continue with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, just that -- and I was going to be very polite but firm about it," he stressed, "but what two consenting adults got up to in the privacy of their own home was nobody's business." He fixed his stare on the exact height of Crowley's eyes if the demon had been standing instead of lying supine on the sofa.

Crowley discovered that he could not speak with his eyebrows so close to his hairline. It took a few moments before they lowered so he could say, "You would have told her --"

"That it was none of her business," the angel replied primly, at last locking eyes with the demon. "It's not an admission of anything. You are my friend, my best friend; and if it's too complicated for regular human understanding, I don't think I care to explain it further."

The angel shifted uncomfortably and Crowley wondered how much more he would say if given enough vacuum to fill. 

Crowley grunted softly, encouragingly.

"I suppose it was bound to happen eventually," the angel continued as if on cue. "I mean, people will talk, they'll wonder, they'll see patterns they recognize even if that's not what is going on. They'll put it in human terms, like _friend_ or _boyfriend_. That doesn't change, that didn't change us."

Crowley took a sip, no longer bothering to use the pitcher but just miracling the alcohol directly into his glass. 

"And maybe," - Aziraphale was not done - "we should hold hands once in a while, in public. Just to fit into the recognizable pattern, so we don't look suspicious, you know? So we fit in better. But of course you and I have never discussed this, and I wouldn't want to put you on the spot in front of others. I mean, I don't think handholding is very onerous, but still, I don't want to shock you.”

By now, Crowley was leaning forward, dangling his upper body over his knees and about ready to fall off the sofa again. "You're telling me," he said, "that you would want to hold hands or do something equally affectionate in front of the humans just so we'll appear more human?"

Crowley was trying very hard to keep his thoughts from running amuck with little scenarios in which he could touch the angel. Forget about merely twining their fingers together! He could wrap himself around Aziraphale's arm when they walked to a nearby restaurant, or could place his hand on Aziraphale's lower back while helping him into the Bentley. Or they could brush shoulders or knees while seated at a table. Or, if he woke up early and came downstairs while a customer was harassing Zira in the shop, they would have to give each other a little good morning kiss. And they might need to practice a few times in private, just so it wouldn't be awkward in public. And suddenly, Crowley's timetable for everything shrunk again. 

Aziraphale started to nod in agreement but changed his mind before the words could be said. "Well, unfortunately, if you held my hand it will probably just look like I'm too feeble to walk on my own." He sighed in self pity. 

Crowley grunted as his visions popped like soap bubbles. The timetable returned to its earlier length, bleakly stretching years and years into the future. 

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Angel, let's get out of town."

"Whatever for?" questioned Aziraphale.

"Well, we're going to start traveling, yes? Let's consider this practice," he reasoned. "It's either that or we get you a wheelchair."

Aziraphale definitely didn't want the chair. "Where would we go?"

"No place far," said Crowley. "Just a few hours drive, maybe. Just to practice."

"Like a minibreak?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow but he didn't lose the ability to speak. "What do you know about minibreaks?"

"Oh, just what I've picked up in the shop," he responded breezily. 

Crowley could almost taste the lie in the air. Something was off. Aziraphale had done more research than he wanted to admit.

"Some young woman recently mentioned taking a minibreak to a cottage on the coast and wanted to know if I had any books on the area. I hadn't, but I ordered a few for her and then I read them before she picked them up. And then I went _online_ to see if the books were accurate," he added. "Fascinating place. We could go to the coast, if you like. And I think you would, based on all that I've read. It will probably be chilly there now, but that's true of England in general."

"Yeah, sure," Crowley grunted, thinking it couldn't be that easy. 

He listened intently to whatever the angel said after that, waiting for the catch. Aziraphale sketched out the trip and solicited the demon's opinions but it was clear that he had thought about it, had definitive ideas about _where_ and _what_ , and had only been lacking a _when_. 

Suddenly, Crowley was wondering if the angel had a timetable of his own and just how far into the future it stretched. 

At last, the angel huffed at himself. "I suppose," he admitted, "it would be easier to show you the webpages if you're interested."

The demon was perpetually curious, so they turned on the computer -- Crowley had brought over his laptop and disposed of Aziraphale's worthless hunk the day after he had moved in. It turned out that the angel was not so much opposed to new technology as he was opposed to the hassle of replacing what he had. 

They stayed up past sunrise, clicking links and comparing tabs and coming up with preferences and favorites, until Crowley growled that he was tired and wanted to sleep.

Aziraphale let him go with the promise that he would call a few rental agencies after noon and wake the demon in time for dinner. 

"Good night, Angel," the demon called over his shoulder. 

"Good morning," the angel answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, forgot to tag the _italics_ in the original post. Just added them.


	7. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical dinner out takes on a different tone when they run into someone from the coffee shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping you like this chapter!

Crowley held the door to the restaurant while Aziraphale sailed through the opening, still gushing over the details of the cottage they had both liked best being ready to let so soon. 

Before they could speak with the hostess and discover that a table for two had just miraculously become available, they heard their names.

"Mr. Fell!" "Mr. Crowley!"

They were both too surprised by the novelty of being recognized not to look over to the bar. There were two young, eager faces smiling at them and waving them over.

"Patrick!" exclaimed Aziraphale upon seeing his neighbor. "And Marika!"

The young couple stood up from their barstools to greet the newly arrived pair. Reintroductions were quickly made and dispensed with as being unnecessary. They all remembered the excitement from Wednesday. And when the young people fretted and fussed over Aziraphale's lip (which appeared to be healing speedily), he kindly brushed aside their concerns.

"Think nothing of it," he said, waving his hand as if to shoo away the topic. He barely thought of it now except for the occasional tingle.

Crowley's greeting was less enthusiastic overall but he still gave a smile with the right amount of teeth before ordering a scotch from the bartender, then adding another at a side-eye from the angel. If they were going to make conversation at the bar before going to a table, they could at least get comfortable

"So," Aziraphale continued, "your mother said you two were going to dinner tonight. It's here, is it?" Bernice had said that it was not a date exactly, but it was definitely a nice restaurant for a new acquaintance. He had been led to believe that Patrick had hoped that this dinner would lead to a real date and, judging from the budding chemistry between the two, it would. 

The two humans looked at each other and laughed. "That was the plan," Patrick said with a self-deprecating grimace. 

"Yeah," agreed Marika, making the most of what was clearly an inauspicious start to their not-a-date. "We walked past it two nights ago and we both said how much we wanted to come here for dinner one night. And then he said, 'What about Friday?' and I said, 'Okay,' and here we are."

"But we had no idea this place would be so busy tonight," Patrick added. "We put our names in half an hour ago but it'll probably be another 45 minutes at least."

"Do you hear that, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked even though the demon had been standing at his elbow. "Forty-five more minutes for a table for two?" 

He was clearly trying to communicate something. Crowley thought he understood but, being a demon, pretended otherwise.

"There's a good chip shop a few blocks over," he noted. "Good and quick." He was in no mood for the angel to give their table away. 

Marika looked gamely at Patrick. She was going to enjoy his company wherever or however they spent the evening. "I'm up for whatever you want," she said. "I'm not so hungry that I have to eat right away if you want to wait, and I'm always in the mood for good fish and chips."

Before Patrick could decide, Aziraphale spoke up, "Really, Dear?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the others. "He took me to a chip shop after we went to an arcade last Friday and it was awful. If you don't mind, I'm sure we could see if they have a table for all four of us. Sometimes it is easier to seat one group of four than two groups of two."

The glare that Crowley levelled at the angel was noticeably dampened by his dark glasses but some of it must have leaked out.

"Oh, oh no," said Marika, apologetic. "We don't want to crash your date night. We'll be fine."

"Date night?" repeated both Patrick (who had heard his mother's hypotheses on Mr. Crowley one too many times) and Aziraphale (who had rigorously never thought of dinner with Crowley in those terms). 

Crowley, however, felt the cogworks in his mind shift into high gear. He had listened to Aziraphale babble about this just last night. If the humans made assumptions about their relationship, he was allowed to meet their expectations. This was opportunity, and he didn't wait for a second offering.

"I don't know," shrugged Crowley. He brushed his fingers against Aziraphale's hand in an affectionate gesture. It was subtle enough that the angel didn't tense up, but it did attract an incredulous if panicked stare. "Angel, what do you think? A double date could be fun."

Aziraphale didn't say anything but his eyes were very expressively asking what that was for. Crowley merely shrugged back, trusting six millennia of familiarity to correctly translate the gesture. The humans, thankfully, were too wrapped up in their own reactions to notice. Marika burst into giggles and looked at Patrick who was blushing so hard that it was surprising he didn't pass out. They choked through a few nonsense syllables, very awkwardly and publicly trying to determine if the other person wanted it to be a date as much as they did. Finally Marika turned back, beaming. 

"Yeah, sure, a double date," she agreed for the both of them.

* * *

It was amazing how fast a table for four came open when Aziraphale checked with the hostess. The demon wasted no time in ordering a bottle of wine for the table and when Patrick and Marika balked at what sounded like (and was) a very expressive drink, the angel told them not to mind.

"Let it be our treat," he said, silencing their protests. 

Conversation flowed. Both Aziraphale and Crowley had been around long enough to talk about anything; Crowley could be diabolically charming when he put his mind to it, and Aziraphale was angelically disarming at even the worst of times. Patrick and Marika were both eager to be agreeable, already pleased with how the night was going better than either of them had planned on. 

They talked about coffee and dancing, and internships that led to full-time positions, and books and cars, and the wine and the food. 

It had been so long since either the angel or the demon had a real and lengthy conversation with humans -- even one that blended into a new topic every ten minutes -- that Aziraphale had to gaze fondly at Crowley in thanks for this double date. Content for the most part with just the two of them, it was invigorating to interact with a larger group every once in a while. It served as a good reminder to the immortal beings why they had wanted to save the world.

Eventually, Aziraphale mentioned the cottage -- Crowley was a little proud of the angel for keeping it to himself for as long as he did given that he hadn't stopped talking about it in private since the demon had woken up -- and Marika was all ears. She had vacationed very near there as a teenager with her family and had a lot of questions about it.

While those two were talking animatedly, Crowley turned his eyes to Patrick who had been repeatedly caught staring at the two older beings during the meal.

"Oi, Paddy," he said softly so as not to disturb the other two who were now discussing holiday bike rentals, "something on your mind?"

Patrick smiled and shook himself. "Sorry, no. It's just my mom has a theory about you and Mr. Fell -- had a theory, that is. I mean, tonight just blew it out of the water. She's not going to believe it when I tell her we were on a double date with you."

"Really?" Crowley tilted his head just so, coaxing a confession. "Would this at all be related to Bernice popping round the shop yesterday to ask rather invasive questions about our private moments?"

Patrick squawked and flailed about in his chair. He clamped a hand over his mouth before anything louder spilled out. Aziraphale and Marika noticed the movement and stopped their conversation to see what was the matter. 

"Sorry!" Patrick said at last. "Sorry! That… No. Whatever you thought it sounded like, that's not what my mother meant. Good god, no. She just meant --" He stopped and clutched his hands together. "Oh, no, that sounds worse," he said to himself.

"What happened?" "What are you talking about?" Aziraphale and Marika tried to make heads or tails of the exchange.

Satisfied with his mischief, Crowley splayed back in his chair and let Patrick deal with it.

"Well, my mother, my mother thought… And it really is just… just this crazy idea. Crazy and wrong."

Marika was completely confused by the botched explanation but Aziraphale thought he knew what was coming. He glared at Crowley from the corner of his eye.

Patrick sighed and decided to put himself out of his misery. If Marika thought his mother was too much, then she wouldn't last much past the first date anyway. "She thought Mr. Crowley was Mr. Fell's in-home attendant," he said at last, "like a nurse."

Marika looked at Patrick, then at the other two, then burst into tipsy giggles. Aziraphale cast a suffering glance at Crowley who only curled up one corner of his mouth as if to say, but wait! There's more.

After a moment, Marika calmed herself and apologized for her outburst. "I'm sorry but it's just hard to imagine," she said. "No offense, Mr. Crowley, by you seem more anti-nurse than nurse."

Crowley had to lift his glass in appreciation of her accurate observation.

"And I'll talk with her, Mr. Fell," added Patrick. And here Crowley applied some hidden pressure to the angel's shoe to warn him slightly about what was coming next. "I don't know what exactly she said, but I'll set her straight. Not straight!" he yelped, thinking of the connotations around that word. "I'll talk with her."

Aziraphale had never tried to stop time before so naturally he got it wrong, merely stopping his heart and lungs for a minute or two. "Dear?" he said finally, breathlessly, turning his head to Crowley. 

"Apparently," said Crowley, not answering the question the angel desperately wanted to ask, "it was all a big misunderstanding, but Patrick will clear it up with Bernice as soon as he can."

Rather than letting a pall settle over the conversation, Marika changed the subject. "So what do you do, Mr. Crowley, when you're not busy being not-a-nurse?"

Crowley liked the girl, she deserved someone more interesting than Patrick. "I suppose I'm semi-retired now," he said.

"Semi?" Aziraphale raised a quiet alarm. "You're out. We both are. Through flood and fire, and neither of us is going back."

Before Crowley can smooth the ruffled feathers, Patrick piped up. "Wait! Mr. Fell, are you closing your shop?"

"What? No! I meant…" Aziraphale cast a helpless glance over to the demon who was so much more adept at lying and digging his way out of messes.

"What he means is," said Crowley, swooping in, "he used to do some very lucrative consulting work, research in all those dusty, old books. It's how we met. I have dabbled in research too, but for a rival think tank. But we've cut ties with our respective head offices, wholy and irrevocably. Still, it's a lifetime of habit, not something one can completely walk away from. As I'm sure you understand."

He had meant to imply that neither angel nor demon could deny their basic nature, bringing good or evil into the world. After all, even though Heaven had tried to burn Aziraphale out of existence, he still performed miracles and attempted to make people's lives better, even if it was something like getting them a table in a restaurant. And, as a demon, Crowley still performed temptations and mischief, like -- 

Aziraphale's eyes went wide at the memory of being pinned to the wall by Crowley. Crowley, seeing the change of expression, couldn't help figuring out why. They weren't talking about it, but that didn't mean either of them had forgotten it.

He cleared his throat and fought through a fog in his brain to figure out what to say next. It was important to keep talking, to keep Marika from making some insightful observation or Patrick from blurting out something equally ridiculous. 

"I suppose I should find something structured to do with my time. I could start working in the bookshop," he smirked. "I bet I'd be employee of the month in less than a week."

The young couple laughed as the angel just tutted. Crowley could tell he had pushed things as far as possible for one night so he decided to moderate his behavior slightly from then on. But at least he had managed to debunk Bernice's ridiculous idea; whatever Aziraphale might say about his methods, he got results. 

He pivoted and asked Patrick about the fate of his dance classes. The boy moped slightly and said that his parents were probably going to cancel it after the next session. He couldn't blame them, not really, not when Aziraphale was still sporting what looked like violent aftereffects of the last lesson. 

But Patrick was young and innovative, and he had someone at the table he wanted to impress. He had plenty of ideas for what he'd like to do next. 

Marika gave her opinion when solicited, and sometimes when not. And the two immortal beings across the table watched the human story unfold again. 


	8. Touch Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the success of their "double date" the pair try for holding hands in public. You know, for the humans.

In the days following their dinner with Patrick and Marika, Aziraphale was careful not to mention anything about the date. He didn't want to upset Crowley who was refusing to discuss it. 

Yes, they had held hands in the restaurant. Well, no, not actually _held hands_. Crowley had brushed his knuckles against Aziraphale's hand in a way that clearly implied a romantic connection to a normal human observer. He had done it for Aziraphale, to replace Bernice's mistaken impression of their relationship with an equally mistaken but much preferred impression that the two were a couple. 

In a lot of ways, this was all Aziraphale's fault for putting the idea into Crowley's head. And they did need to talk about it, whatever consensus determined _it_ to be. But since the temptation that sent Crowley into one of his sulks and nearly broke up their comfortable, new arrangement, Aziraphale felt that he should let Crowley take the lead and decide when they were going to talk about this new development.

But Crowley didn't want to talk about it, if the silence on the subject was any indication. Which would have to be sufficient until Crowley changed his mind. Aziraphale wasn't about to chase his best friend away with unwelcome conversations.

And so Aziraphale went about his routine, and Crowley went about his. And together they went about their combined routine. Bernice -- through miracles both angelic and diabolical -- gave them wide berth. They went to restaurants and parks, took walks and drives, ran important errands and spent time frivolously. It was nice, if Aziraphale could say so without Crowley overhearing.

That Sunday, they had just shut up the shop and were about to walk to lunch when a neighbor waved at them from across the street. Being Sunday, the human had probably just come from a religious service. Aziraphale didn't bother with church usually -- his divine connection to God was more than enough -- but he appreciated when humans made the effort, and he waved cheerily in reply. In contrast, Crowley threw his hand in the manner of a wave then brought his hand down and, just like in the restaurant, brushed his knuckles against Aziraphale. The angel had not been expecting it, but took it in stride, smiling slightly at Crowley because that was what couples did. The neighbor noticed; he stared at the subtle connection for two seconds before repeating his waving and wishing them a good afternoon. 

Monday, it happened again. Crowley brushed against his hand at the restaurant in front of the maître d'. The restaurant employee didn't bother to give it a second glance before announcing that, yes, he did have a table available for them. And when they were seated, his fingers plucked at Aziraphale's sleeve for no other reason than the waiter had asked if they were interested in hearing about the chef's special dishes. Aziraphale decided that he was rapidly acclimating to this sort of touching.

Tuesday, they walked in a nearby park after lunch. They had often been here, finding the park's walking trails just wide enough for two to walk side by side. Pausing in their usual circuit to sit on a bench in front of a pond, Crowley pulled a bag of stale breadcrumbs from a non-existent pocket in his coat and set it down on the space between them. Aziraphale reached for it and, in a feat of daring that he had been working up to all day, let his fingers brush against Crowley's hand as he did. 

The demon jumped up and snatched his hand away as if he had been burned. 

They both looked at each other in mute shock for a moment. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale began, "are you --"

"You startled me, is all," came the gruff reply as the demon returned to the bench, his sprawl stiffer than before. He smoothed his coat and adjusted the thin rope of fabric that he claimed was a tie. He kept himself too busy to look at the angel sitting next to him.

"I didn't hurt you, did I, Dear?" It had never occurred to Aziraphale that demons couldn't stand physical contact with an angel, but now that he thought about it, it seemed like something that could be true, a divine protection added after the Fall.

"Hurt me?" Crowley scoffed as he checked his lapels. "Don't be stupid. It's just, just that a demon doesn't touch another demon to be friendly in my experience. I wasn't expecting you."

Aziraphale let that sink in. He had tried to be as gentle, as subtle and nonchalant as Crowley had been, but that had not been enough, or maybe it had been too much. 

"If you don't want to be touched, I understand. We've only been trying it out for a few days but I think Bernice has caught on. And others as well. No need to keep going if it irritates you. Mission accomplished," he said, smiling in his worried way. It had been an unexpected kindness for the demon to do this favor for the angel's vanity, but they needn't continue. 

"I didn't say that, Angel," Crowley growled, at last turning his head to give the angel a quelling glare which would have been far more effective if he wasn't wearing such dark shades. "Don't put words in my mouth. I said you caught me off guard and I meant it. Try it again." He deliberately turned his head away, intending not to see the angel reach out to touch him. Then he deliberately moved his hand from his lap to the space between them.

Aziraphale stared at it for a bit. It was considerably more stressful this way, he thought. At last, he reached out and poked the back of Crowley's hand. 

Crowley swivelled his head to glare at his companion. "Really?" he said, unimpressed. 

Aziraphale flushed. "It's more difficult than it looks," he justified as if Crowley had not been doing the same thing for days now. The performance anxiety alone was crippling. "It's not like I have a lot of practice in touching you. It would be a whole lot easier if I could practice until it felt natural, you know?"

"You want to practice touching me in private," Crowley repeated. For a demon, his tone sounded remarkably judgmental or perhaps Aziraphale was merely projecting.

"Not like that!" The angel was blushing furiously and the demon could not react. "Just the hand! Just until neither one of us jumps or flinches or otherwise looks uncomfortable."

"Right," Crowley drawled.

"Just forget it," Aziraphale pleaded. This felt dangerously close to the border of things Crowley refused to talk about.

"No, no, too late for that," the demon countered, not withdrawing like usual. "You have me intrigued. How would that work?"

Aziraphale shut his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. "I don't know," he admitted. The idea had only come to him half-formed with a lot of details missing. "We could practice at home. Tonight if you like. Just, I don't know, sit in front of the telly and try to make it look spontaneous."

Crowley tilted his head as if to settle those words in one corner of his brain. Then he turned to look out at the humans walking by. "Yeah, sure," he said finally. "Let's give it a go."

* * *

They ate take-away on the sofa that night with Crowley's laptop open on the coffee table and a baking competition streaming on the screen. Aziraphale began with all the subtlety of a mallet and Crowley sat ready to endure his attempts with all the stoicism of a steel beam. 

By the third episode, however, it looked and felt natural and unprompted. 

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth episode, Crowley visibly struggled to stay awake. The conflict between the contestants, such as it was, was very understated; the camaraderie was too obvious; no one in the competition wanted to lose yet no one wanted anyone else to lose either. For a demon, it was boring, even if that demon was currently living with an angel. 

Aziraphale laced their fingers together and gently squeezed. Twelve hours ago, Crowley would have flinched from the contact but now he just answered with matching pressure. 

"Crowley, Dear," Aziraphale said softly, "it's late. You're falling asleep. Wouldn't you rather go to bed?"

Crowley didn't say anything but tried to blink away the fatigue. When that failed, he stretched, bending himself over the back of the sofa and nearly taking Aziraphale's clasped hand with him. Then he yawned and shook himself and agreed that yes, it was time to retire for the night. 

As he pulled himself to his feet, he muttered something groggily. Upon prompting, he restated his words more clearly: "Shall we try this again tomorrow night?"

Aziraphale smiled. It had been pleasant, just sitting next to each other, stealing moments of physical contact until it no longer felt strange or illicit. But the point, as he had presented it to Crowley, was to appear as a couple in front of the humans, and there weren't any humans there to observe them. There was only so much private practice they could have before it stopped being practice.

"Let's go out," he said instead. "I know how much you like that." Crowley did enjoy crowds and chaos and noise. He wasn't as much a fan of interacting with humans, but he enjoyed their buzzing about.

Crowley grunted in acknowledgement and headed for the stairs. His movements were almost drunken in their sloppiness. The demon only intended to stay awake to the point of falling into bed, and barely that.

"And besides, "Aziraphale added over his shoulder, "we are going to the cottage on Friday; we can practice as much as we need to over the weekend."

There was a crashing noise as Crowley tripped and tumbled down a few steps before a death grip on the railing saved him from hitting every stair on the way down. Aziraphale was at his side a moment later.

"Are you all right, Dear?" he asked, nearly breathless with concern. 

Crowley's eyes were a little wild at first. He had been too tired to keep his eyes open just a moment ago but now he was completely awake. Aziraphale gripped him around the waist, unwilling to let him fall further. (If that was a metaphor, so be it.)

There was a small struggle as Crowley attempted to free himself from the angel's grasp, but Aziraphale refused to let go until his friend was safely at the top, cooing, "I've got you, I've got you." 

After a moment, Crowley gave up his dignity entirely and just sagged against him. The demon was remarkably (not remarkably) pliant, conforming exactly to Aziraphale's side. While he let the angel half-carry him up the remaining steps, he did get his brain and mouth working again, telling Aziraphale that he was all right and to quit making such a fuss.

Despite his words, the demon still seemed unsteady on his feet. As it was only a few more steps to Crowley's bedroom door, so Aziraphale crossed the distance for them both. 

"Now, Dear, am I going to tuck you into bed, or can you manage that for yourself?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley looked at him then, silent and unblinking and unreadable. Their faces were so close that their noses touched, and Crowley was still melded to him from shoulder to hip. 

With a spark of mischief in his eye, the demon opened his mouth and said, "All this time and you never mentioned you offered a turndown service."

Aziraphale laughed in spite of himself, wishing it didn't sound so much like a nervous titter. He dropped his hands; a Crowley that could make jokes was more than capable of standing or swaying on his own two feet.

"Incorrigible fiend," he chastised then beat a retreat to the safety of the main floor. 


	9. Private Instruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With dance lessons at the coffee shop ended, Crowley offers to teach Aziraphale a few moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel weird describing some physical activities like dancing.

By the time they returned from dinner on Wednesday, Patrick's final dance lesson at the coffee shop was winding down. Aziraphale looked through the front window wistfully before Crowley told him to go over and see how the crowd was.

"I'll open a bottle of wine while I wait for you at home," he offered.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand in gratitude then crossed the street.

Crowley merely rolled his eyes and ignored the locks on the bookshop's door.

He took his time in selecting a bottle, then poured them both a liberal serving. He started to drink, figuring it would be un-demonic to sit totally sober and well-behaved, but he wasn't left alone for long.

Aziraphale came bustling in, full of secondhand greetings from everyone at the lesson. "You should have joined me," he said, hanging up his outer jacket and pushing up the sleeves of his jumper. "Everyone was asking for you. It seems that you made quite the impression last week... until I had my incident. All the ladies wanted to dance with you, Crowley."

Crowley just grunted

"Well, all the ladies except Bethany and Rochelle," Aziraphale amended. "They're a couple, you know, and not really interested in dancing with anyone else. But, oh, you should have seen the moves Patrick was teaching this week!"

Aziraphale brought the laptop to the coffee table and spent a little time fiddling with it before music started to spill from the speaker. He picked up his wine glass, leaned back, and took a sip.

"Exactly what I was in the mood for," he offered in praise. Whether he was complementing the wine or the song was a mystery.

Crowley eyed him carefully. "I thought you'd be there far longer," he said. "I was certain that _Dear Patrick_ would con you into dancing with someone and you'd be stuck there for a half-hour at least."

"He tried, slightly," admitted Aziraphale, "but I really am a rubbish dancer, which is such a shame because the music is so much fun. I mean, listen to that, Crowley. How can you _not_ want to dance when you hear it?" He gestured at the laptop and the sound emanating from it.

Crowley studied him. "Are you trying to get me to dance?" he asked suspiciously.

"What?" Aziraphale looked immediately flustered. "What? No! I just, I like the music. It makes me happy. It makes me want to move and make a joyful noise and all that."

Crowley finished the rest of his glass in one swallow. If he was about to say the words that were currently loitering in his mouth, he wanted an excuse in case it all went sideways.

"I could teach you, if you wanted," he said.

"What?" Aziraphale repeated, but this time there wasn't a _no_ following close behind. "You could… Can you do that? I mean, what if I can't be taught?"

Crowley merely raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a challenge to my demonic powers."

"But I thought you said that angels can't dance."

"And I can think of a few beings who don't know if we are still an angel and a demon anymore. Besides, you have demonstrated repeatedly that you are hardly like the rest of them," Crowley countered. "If there's an angel that can dance, I'm sure it's you." He sat back and added, "Unless you don't really want to learn."

The last line hung in the air like a temptation. And didn't Crowley tempt him all the time? Wine and food and walks and conversations, weren't they all just temptations of an innocent kind? And wasn't dancing really just a walk set to music?

"It would be nice," Aziraphale agreed and for once the demon didn't argue over the adjective.

* * *

As a rule, angels couldn't dance. The corollary, however, was that they could sing quite well. Rather than standing up and walking Aziraphale through some basic steps, Crowley instead played a few songs on his phone and told his pupil to sing along.

He knew that the angel had an excellent singing voice, had snuck up on him a number of times over the millennia and caught him singing marvellously. But it wasn't something Aziraphale was comfortable doing in public for whatever reason, and there were plenty of more enjoyable ways to tease his old nemesis.

Aziraphale was shy at first but complied. By the third song, his voice was strong and full, and his foot was tapping to the rhythm. Crowley pointed to the foot and Aziraphale suddenly stopped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, thinking it must be rude.

"Don't apologise, Angel," Crowley scolded him. "I was waiting for you to find the beat. If you can do that, you can dance.

Satisfied with the first step in his lesson plan, Crowley stood up and pulled up Aziraphale as well.

"The next step is to find the rhythm upright," he instructed. "Keep singing if it helps."

Aziraphale tried but felt too awkward. "I can't," he said. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"It's easy, just move to the sound, like you did when you tapped your foot," Crowley said, then demonstrated, bending and stepping to the music.

Aziraphale watched his friend move in dismay, knowing that he himself could never move so effortlessly. Crowley seemed to pick up on his mood and took his hand loosely, pulling and lifting and pushing and lowering it until the motion spread to the rest of his upper body and slowly to his hips.

Soon they joined both hands, Crowley offering small corrections and suggestions as they moved about. Then, with no apparent warning at all, Crowley took a step forward and Aziraphale froze. The demon has gone from being at arm's length -- a perfectly reasonable distance -- to being very close. Unbidden, he remembered the night that Crowley had tempted him, had pressed him against a wall and growled suggestive things in his ear.

"Zira? Hello?" Crowley's voice recalled him to the here and now. There was no indication to Crowley of where he had gone, nor to Aziraphale of how long he had been there.

"Sorry," Aziraphale apologized, shaking his head to clear away those thoughts. "You, you just caught me off guard. I didn't know what to do."

Crowley stepped back and tried to explain the importance of keeping tension in the arm. "Pushing or pulling the hand should move the shoulder, which moves the hip, which moves the foot," he said. "Here, try it on me."

He held up his hand. Aziraphale took it and pushed lightly. Crowley stepped back. Aziraphale did it again, and Crowley repeated his step backward. Aziraphale could feel a slight give in Crowley's arm each time before it simply refused to bend any more and the rest of Crowley's body was forced to move.

Aziraphale frowned as it began to make a lot of sense to him. "I wish Patrick would have explained it like this."

Crowley rolled his shoulders in a shrug. He had paid absolutely no attention to the human's instructions for the simple reason that he already knew how to dance and therefore couldn't judge its quality. "Now try stepping back, and pulling me along with you," he said instead.

Aziraphale tried, stepping backward and forward. Crowley kept his perfect distance.

"You make it look so easy," the angel mused at the end of the song.

"Your turn," said the demon. "Keep me at arm's length."

Of the two, Crowley was much better at leading, naturally. He directed Aziraphale across the floor to the rhythm of the music, until what was so foreign to the angel began to feel less mechanical, like he was really dancing rather than poorly copying the movements of actual dancers.

Then, just as Aziraphale noticed that he was beaming at Crowley, the demon pulled him and twisted out of the way so that they were facing the same direction, shoulder to shoulder. Just as quickly as Crowley got them into that position, he spun out of it. Aziraphale, however, forgot to move.

"What was that?" he exclaimed excitedly. "What you just did, that spinny, shoulder thing… what do you call that?"

"I don't _call_ it anything, Angel," Crowley said. "I just do it."

"Well, do it again," commanded the angel.

Crowley complied, mixing it into the steps to and fro around the floor.

Aziraphale was having fun, and he was dancing. He hadn't enjoyed himself while dancing in over a century, back when Crowley had been cross with him -- perhaps they had both been a little cross -- and had taken a long nap. Aziraphale had really worked hard at integrating himself into human society during that sulk. He had an entire bookshelf crowded with signed first editions from that period, nearly all of them including a heartfelt message of appreciation or friendship for Mr. Fell. Some works and authors were destined for obscurity but others had shown briefly for the world to see, and a rare few were famous even now. But as wonderful as it was to remember that time, he wouldn't trade away the pleasure of dancing with Crowley for those old days to come again.

Crowley lured him under a bridge made by their joined hands, then tugged him back out. Laughter bubbled up from Aziraphale's throat. He was giddy. This whole night had made him giddy, and he laughed and spun about his flat, holding hands with Crowley, following however he might lead.

Crowley raised their joined hands again and Aziraphale obediently turned under them. He expected Crowley to pull him back out as had happened before, but Crowley just placed Aziraphale's hand on his own snaky hip and spun around. The turn dragged the angel's hand across the demon's lower back and then Crowley was facing him again, taking that hand, and continuing the dance.

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. His feet faltered briefly but they had been dancing for a while now -- an hour? two hours? -- and his body found it easy to fall in line.

"Wh-what do you call that?" he asked. The stutter in his voice matched the stutter in his step.

"Angel, I told you I don't have names for any of this. I just dance," said Crowley. "Did you not like it?"

"N-no." His feet were more certain than his mouth. "I was, I was just curious."

Crowley did the move again. This time Aziraphale mentally prepared for it, which helped, but he was also more aware, which made it feel different from what he was prepared for.

They repeated it along with the other spins and turns until it felt natural. There was still an unusual electricity in their joined hands, and even more than that when a hand brushed against some other part of the other's body, but it was not strange. It was not odd or unwelcome. In fact, Aziraphale probably could have danced all night, circling around Crowley and being circled in return.

One time, however, that his hand glided across Crowley's back, the demon failed to catch his hand. By then, they had stopped feeling any awkwardness in one another; hands reached out and grabbed at each other, shoulders bumped into each other, laughter was heard above the music.

Aziraphale was supposed to stop, to be pulled back into orbit by a tug from Crowley. Instead, their hands missed each other, slipped past without a firm grip. He stumbled backward and crashed gently into the nearby wall.

The music immediately fell silent. "Angel, are you okay?" Crowley asked, coming closer.

Aziraphale was folded over at the waist, laughing too hard to stand upright. As Crowley recognized the noise as giggling rather than groaning, he relaxed and suggested they take a break. They had been dancing for hours by now and, while neither of them needed to feel fatigue, the rest of the bottle of wine was still waiting to slip down their throats.

While Aziraphale calmed himself, Crowley returned to the sofa, sprawling in his usual fashion with knees akimbo and one arm draped across the back cushions, as the other topped off their glasses.

"Make way," was the only warning Aziraphale gave as he bumped into Crowley's knee and dropped onto the cushion beside him.

Had Crowley had more time, he might have moved away. As it was, he hadn't, and now he found that the old piece of furniture tended to keep him close to the angel as if there was gravity involved. Not that he minded. And even if he did mind, the sofa was so often _his_ and he had sat here first so that it would be the angel's job to sit elsewhere.

He looked at Aziraphale with gentle exasperation while the angel leaned forward and magicked his glass into his hand. As he leaned back, he nearly squished the demon before apologising and wedging himself into the available space. He didn't appear to mind the closeness either.

"That was fun," Aziraphale stated the obvious. "We must do that again. You are a marvelous teacher." He continued to enthuse and drink his wine, oblivious to the press of the demon against his side or the look in Crowley's yellow eyes, until suddenly he wasn't.

He turned his head to look at Crowley and found the demon was terribly close, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. "Is everything all right, Dearest?" he asked softly.

 _Dearest?_ That struck Crowley as a new appellation. He had been _Dear Boy_ and _My Dear_ , and eventually just _Dear _. It was much the same way that Crowley referred to Aziraphale as simply _Angel_ ; it didn't have to mean anything other than he was too lazy to use the angel's full name. And if the humans had thought it meant more, well, that was how they reached their current situation. But _Dearest_ seemed to mean more, and Crowley couldn't be bothered with pretending to protest.__

____

____

This was normally the point at which Crowley pulled away, because Aziraphale had already gone too far and not realized it. Because if Crowley continued to remove obstacles between them, continued to revel in the nearness, then Aziraphale would need to notice, and would be forced to issue a painful rejection. For both their sakes, the angel would have to re-establish more distance than was strictly necessary to keep them safe from any discipline meted out by their respective sides.

But they had no respective sides anymore. Heaven and Hell might be curious about what they got up to, but Aziraphale felt no loyalty to the archangels that were so eager to end the world and his own existence. Or, at least, the angel should not have felt any loyalty. After six millennia, Aziraphale might have a hard time differentiating between old habits and what he actually felt. Now suddenly seemed an important time to clarify that.

"I want to parley," Crowley said, refusing to move away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspenseful chord!


	10. Blindsided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoochy-smooch!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost in the final lap! Remember to stay hydrated.

"Parley?" Aziraphale repeated, his brows knit with confusion. 

The last time one of them had thrown out that word, Crowley had been ready to disappear to who-knew-where for who-knew-how-long. The demon looked far too comfortable on the sofa to storm out, but that meant nothing if Crowley really was offended. _Had_ Aziraphale offended him? Was it the incessant giggling? Had he touched Crowley's back in an unforgivable way? Humans could be like that with certain parts of their bodies being touchable while adjacent areas were forbidden. "Did I do something wrong?" He started to curl away.

"What? You, wrong? No!" It had never occurred to Crowley that the angel could do something wrong. Foolish and exasperating and entirely too naive about the actions and intentions of others, but never wrong. He chose his next words carefully. "No, just, I had fun too, and that's not something a former demon can easily admit."

Aziraphale smiled. It started as a faint curl of the lips and ended with him positively beaming. 

"Former demon," Aziraphale mused before turning thoughtful. "Does that make me a former angel?" He had never thought of it in such stark terms. The term 'rogue angel' sounded less damned. 

"I don't imagine Heaven or Hell wants much to do with either of us now," Crowley reminded him. "There was that attempted double execution with holy water and hell fire."

"Ah," said Aziraphale as the recollections came back, clouding his present happiness. He had not _fallen_ exactly, not like Crowley, but he was not currently in Heaven's good books and with no clear path to return. At least God Herself had not rejected him although She remained steadily distant. "Yes, we're on our own side now, as I recall."

Crowley smiled at those words. That was exactly the point he wanted to make: their own side. There was no need to impose an arbitrary distance or coolness in their relationship; everyone knew of it, or at least knew enough to guess the rest, perhaps guessing far more than was present reality. Plausible deniability was no longer available to them and they would succeed or fail together regardless of whether that togetherness was superficial or profound. Deciding that he was not drunk enough to dither on the thought for long, he leaned over and quickly pressed his lips to Aziraphale's cheek. The point was merely to kiss him, not make a grand declaration out of it, just to establish the idea that they could build on.

Aziraphale's face was terribly expressive. The surprise at the gesture was soon supplanted by the disbelief that he had indeed been kissed. Then of course came the fear that someone would find out, the pain of having to chastise Crowley for doing something like that. What would Gabriel say if Heaven found out? What would Hastur do if Hell caught wind of this? 

The realization that Heaven and Hell had no say in the matter anymore broke across his face like a stormy dawn. Habit demanded attention, insisted on obedience, and denied the new truth. But he already lived under the same roof as the demon, went everywhere with him, had been seen publicly holding hands like a human couple. They had spent the night dancing and were currently snuggled up together on the sofa. What more was a kiss compared to all the other acts of betrayal against their former sides? 

Seeing Aziraphale's brow smooth at last, Crowley pressed another kiss into the angel's cheek, just as chaste and brief as the first.

"Why did you do that?" asked Aziraphale, confused by the repeated action.

Crowley shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "It's a kiss, Angel. A human gesture. We're supposed to be in a relationship, holding hands and whatnot. I thought I'd try it out," he said, adding in a small voice, "I can stop if it bothers you."

The angel's lips pouted as if he was trying to find the least hurtful way to say something. Finally, he just blurted out, "I don't think you're doing it right."

Crowley stared at him and blinked. "Come again?"

"It's just," he began, then set down his glass before his flapping hands spilled the wine, "that was the sort of kiss you'd give to a parent or grandparent, not someone you are supposedly dating. Kiss me like that in public and people will start thinking you're my nurse all over again."

There was an inexplicable whine in Crowley's ear after he processed those words. It only ended when the demon shut his gaping mouth. 

"How?" he said, ashamed at how unsteady he sounded. "How do you want me to kiss you?"

Aziraphale's eyes went comically round at the question. He sputtered. "I'm not, I'm not saying I want… I've just, I've never considered… You cannot possibly expect me to answer that sort of question right now!" 

"You've never considered anything past the holding-hands stage of this veneer of a relationship?" The question sounded especially wrenching when Crowley spoke it aloud, and the angel's reaction would be comical if it wasn't so important to the demon. 

"I never expected you to agree to the part about holding hands!" Aziraphale shot back before he could curate his words. "If you're going to kiss me, kiss me like you mean it."

"What?" Crowley said because he could not have heard correctly. In case he wasn't clear, he added another, "What?"

Aziraphale shrivelled within himself. "I don't mean it like that!" he announced defensively. "I just mean, if we're going to appear as a couple to humans, then that is the sort of kissing we should do. I'm sure you've noticed that they use different types of kisses to signal different types of affection, haven't you?"

"You did not seriously ask me that," Crowley stated flatly. 

"Well, I --"

Crowley pressed a kiss into his cheek that was a blink too long to be perfectly chaste. 

"That was a bit too 'spinster aunt' for you," Crowley surmised instead of waiting for Aziraphale to recover his speech. "How about something like this?"

He kissed him squarely on the mouth in a dispassionate gesture of dry, thin lips, his nose bumping into Aziraphale's. 

"Crowley!" the angel barked as soon as the demon had pulled away. "If you're not going to take this seriously --"

Throwing caution to the wind, Crowley kissed him before he could say anything else. It was in a different style from the other attempts. His arm, which had been resting on the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale, gripped the angel's shoulder and shifted them so that they were seated less side by side and more chest to chest. His other hand grasped the angel's jumper and he tilted his head so that their mouths fit together better. 

Crowley was too busy thinking about his timetable at first to enjoy the kiss. Was it less than a week ago that they had talked about pretending to be a romantic couple to satisfy the human gossips, only on Friday that they had pretended to be on a dinner date? Was it only last night that they had sat side by side on this very sofa while Aziraphale had patted and grasped and cradled his hand? And tonight they were dancing and kissing _like he meant it_ , as if he might mean anything else! This was probably madness. There was no way the angel was accepting of this. At any point, he expected Aziraphale to push him away, to say, "That's enough, Crowley!", to stand up and physically separate them. As much as this was a step forward in their relationship, it would be followed by a good many steps back. 

Aziraphale parted his lips slightly; his arm which had been pinned between Crowley and the sofa started to move. Crowley tensed, readying himself for the rejection or protest or exclamation of surprise, a firm shove or possibly a gentle smiting. Aziraphale didn't want to hurt him -- and no doubt it wouldn't be very painful -- but clearly Crowley had tripped over a line that neither of them intended to cross for a while. A safe and familiar distance needed to be restored.

But there was no rejection. Aziraphale didn't wedge his hand between them for the purpose of pushing Crowley away. Instead, Crowley felt the angel's other hand gripping a fistful of jacket and pulling Crowley closer instead of the opposite direction. Aziraphale made a sound that, had Crowley graded it objectively, resembled a whimper of delight. 

Crowley shifted but not much. It was just enough for Aziraphale to free his arm and wrap it around the demon's waist, drawing them closer still. Crowley found the entire situation amazing and unbelievable, but then Aziraphale's hand began to caress its way up his back and his brain just shut down for the night. There was no more thinking, no more weighing and analyzing, no more wondering about what reactions would be. Reactions were happening; they only needed to be observed and even the observations were getting difficult to record when they were happening everywhere at once. 

There was the wool stretched across Zira's back, worn soft with age and care, as well as the knit balled in his other fist. There was the tug at Crowley's side, pulling him forward. There were the soft lips forming and reforming against his own, the tease of warmth beyond them, the velvet slide against his tongue. The touch against his back climbing to where his wings were perpetually hiding. 

It was Aziraphale's hands on his back that drove him to pull his lips away. The touches were getting to be too much. He was about to manifest his wings, and he didn't think he could deal with doing that in front of Aziraphale right now. That was not how a first kiss was supposed to go.

Crowley discovered that Aziraphale still had his eyes shut, his lips rosy, his expression warm. The demon cleared his throat lightly then said, "Was that the sort of kiss you were expecting?"

Aziraphale fluttered his eyes open and looked at Crowley blankly while the words seeped through. "Oh," he said. It was a slightly nonsensical reply, but he wasn't thinking clearly, so it matched his mood. 

The angel had been on Earth for six-thousand-some-odd years. Kissing wasn't a new concept. He had seen it done in many settings by myriad people, in ways that symbolized innocent affection, amorous passion, and even grave betrayal. 

As part of his continuing efforts to fit in with the human world, he had engaged in it as the situation warranted. He had kissed Warlock's knee to heal a scrape before Nanny caught them roughhousing in the garden. He had lost count of the times he had kissed hands and cheeks in greeting according to the prevailing customs. Once, he had even pressed a greeting into Crowley's cheek although he had not been brave enough to reach for the other cheek after the demon had stiffened in his embrace. While he had never considered that he would need to kiss more deeply than that, the point was that he had used his lips for this sort of thing before. 

However, this was not the same, not even close. It was like comparing cave drawings to the work of a Renaissance master. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have thought the kiss was transformative but as it was he was only coherent enough for a dreamy _Oh._.

Seeing the angel's expression, Crowley wondered if it was too soon to kiss him again. Winging out on the second kiss didn't seem nearly as mortifying as on the first. 

"No?" the demon said, blatantly mishearing. "Well, what about something like this?" He wasted no time in wrapping his arms low around Aziraphale's waist and pulling him into another kiss. 

This kiss was different, Aziraphale could tell, although he was too absorbed in the sensations of it to focus on exactly how it was different. His eyes were shut, for one thing; he couldn't use his vision to spot any dissimilarities. There was only touch, but there was a lot of it, and everywhere. There were lips, noses, and chins, obviously. But there were also chests and… legs? Maybe legs, or maybe just hips and a bit of thigh? Definitely not toes. And there were Crowley's arms on his lower back, his hands snaking their way under Aziraphale's jumper, clawing and kneading deliciously. 

Then Crowley's lips left his own and began to trail a line of kisses to his jaw, and that was heavenly. With Crowley's hands slowly climbing up Aziraphale's back, and Crowley's lips slowly moving down Aziraphale's neck, the angel couldn't stop a soft sigh.

Crowley answered it with a low growl and a bit of suction. 

It was a natural instinct of Aziraphale's corporation to twist and turn to expose more of his neck to Crowley's attentions, to arch his back to allow the demon's hands to inch higher. 

It was all wonderful and overwhelming. He had told Crowley to kiss him like he meant it and the demon did not disappoint. In fact, it had surpassed heavenly and was well and truly moved onto a higher level, but what existed beyond Heaven? What kind of angel was he to believe that Heaven was lacking? There was no room for self-chastisement, however, as Crowley moved subtly against him. There was a pressure on his back of wings waiting to be unfurled. It was enough to be there on the sofa while Crowley did blissfully distracting things to him until he couldn't think straight. 

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open in pleasure and he looked upon a blackness more absolute than the one behind his eyelids. 

The realization drew him out of the moment and he blinked again. The emptiness never wavered. He could feel Crowley, could hear him, could smell him, but he could not see him or anything at all. 

"Crowley," he said, trying to sound calm. 

The demon responded by dragging fingers down his back and pressing teeth against the skin of his throat. And it would have felt amazing if Aziraphale wasn't sliding rapidly into a panic. But the world was still black and no amount of blinking was returning color or light into his vision. 

"Crowley, stop!" He pushed against Crowley in alarm. "I've gone blind!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a cliffhanger. It's the pause for breath before the punchline.


	11. Once Bitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is revealed, happily.

Crowley enjoyed kissing Aziraphale, very much so. Perhaps a little too much. The angel's hands around his waist and up his back had nearly driven him to distraction. It made him forget that he was trying not to go too fast and scare the angel off. Something that he would only describe as an itch to spread his wings began to crawl under his skin. 

Rather than waiting for them to pop out unexpectedly, he shifted position, gently knocking Aziraphale's hands away from the sensitive skin on his back. When his wings were safe from accidental touches, he let them unfurl behind him, feathers ruffling silently. 

Aziraphale's lips were there for the taking, but so was the pale column of neck. The noises the angel was making -- that they were both making -- only spurred him onward, his wings curling around them, cocooning them in a private world. 

Aziraphale sighed and exposed more of his neck for the tasting. Crowley growled in delight. 

"Crowley," came the breathy encouragement and the only thing he wanted to do was sink his teeth into the flesh pressed to his lips. He tightened his hold on the angel, running his fingers across Aziraphale's shirt, feeling the muscles underneath. 

Then it went sideways. 

"Crowley, stop!" Aziraphale wasn't enjoying this anymore. In fact, he sounded terrified. His hands wedged themselves between their two chests and started to shove Crowley away. "I've gone blind!" the angel exclaimed.

Crowley pulled away, and his wings leaned back with him. "What?" he grunted. Did he hear that correctly -- _blind_?

But as Crowley straightened up, the blindness ended. Aziraphale could see the black void develop a boundary as light pushed in at the periphery. The void took shape and detail: wings, black wings nestling themselves behind Crowley like they belonged there. 

"What… Crowley, are your wings out?" Had he panicked over the sight of Crowley's wings? 

The black wings folded themselves together more tightly, threatening to disappear completely. "Maybe," he said. There was no point giving an honest answer to a rhetorical question. His wings were on display, of course they were out. 

"Why are they out?" asked Aziraphale, his voice sharp from the tail end of fear slithering its way out of his mind. "You never take them out." 

Crowley put his wings fully away, out of sight out of mind. "What wings?"

Aziraphale wanted to scold him for scaring him accidentally and for withholding the truth deliberately. "Crowley," he sighed, saying nothing else. Had he been expecting something like this, he wouldn't have jumped to the wrong conclusion and panicked. They would still be pressed against each other, Crowley's lips on his neck, Crowley's hands on his back, his own wings -- 

"Oh!" the angel exclaimed in epiphany. "I did that to you. Didn't I?"

The demon groaned and looked away. "It's not, I chose, you didn't--"

"I did," Aziraphale said with growing confidence. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and pressed his back into the opposite corner of the sofa, not quite certain how to explain this in a way that didn't embarrass himself further.

"You didn't pull my wings out," Crowley grit out, perturbed at having to discuss this at all. "Yes, when you touched my back they wanted to come out. But, no, you didn't make them come out, I let them out." It was important for his dignity to stress that point.

"If it's any consolation," Aziraphale said, patting the demon's hand in comfort, "you were getting close to pulling mine out too. I could feel it, but there was too much going on to focus on that one thing, if you know what I mean."

Crowley looked at him crossly. He wasn't in the mood for sympathy, especially as the angel had absolutely not yanked his wings out. 

"But," the angel continued, "I suppose that isn't the sort of display we should do in front of the humans. Wings, you know, would be very difficult to explain these days. It's just a little unseemly."

Now the demon looked hurt, and Aziraphale would be an idiot if he couldn't at least guess as to why. 

"So maybe we save that sort of thing for when it's just you and me, hmm?" he offered. "We still need to figure out how to act convincingly and appropriately in front of the humans, but surely we can practice a few more options at home, just to see what comes of it?"

The look on Crowley's face now was indescribable, but Aziraphale could feel his wings itch in reply. 

"I mean, not now. That's enough for one night. We can sort it out later," Aziraphale said because it felt like it was his job to say things like that, to slow them down, to encourage moderation. Instead of reaching for Crowley, he reached for his wine glass. "Besides, at the rate we're going, we'll never finish the bottle."

* * *

Crowley eventually went upstairs to his bed and Aziraphale turned to his paperwork. He puttered and swept and dusted. He shifted books from one shelf to another. Eventually morning crept closer and he miracled his body into another outfit. Most of his clothes were terribly similar but he changed them daily because his neighbors tended to notice otherwise. 

A customer popped in shortly after he opened, a cup of coffee in hand. Thankfully, when he inquired how he might help them, they revealed that they were merely interested in wasting time rather than buying anything. They eyed the bookseller curiously, taking in his vintage attire, but it was nothing more than what he was used to from first-time browsers, and Aziraphale wished them a cheery, "Good morning!" when they left. 

Two other customers came later, at different times. One was thinking about a Christmas gift for her husband until Aziraphale gave her the perfect non-book idea. The other had been looking for a recent best seller that he was more than willing to part with. Both regarded his outfit critically but neither said anything about it before they departed. 

Shortly before he closed, the florist from a few doors down came by to speak with him about the annual holiday decorations that she prepared for all the shops of the block. She had been doing this for the last ten years and Aziraphale was quite content to keep the tradition going. The designs had already been reviewed, deposits provided, and materials acquired, and it was time to discuss the final payment and the setup of the decorations.

"And when will you need the money, Miss Garth?" he asked. "Perhaps I should just pay you now. Crowley and I are going on a mini break this weekend and if it ends well, we may try traveling again soon for a longer period."

"Ah, yes, your Mr. Crowley," the florist said with a knowing grin. "Looks like you two had a fun night last night."

"I am afraid I don't understand you," Aziraphale frowned. He didn't want to feel prudish but Mary Garth's tone was nearly lecherous. 

The florist laughed and waved a hand in front of her own collar. "Sorry, I just see this sort of thing all the time in my shop. One or other of the girls working for me comes in covered in love bites every week. And then I have to listen to them gossip about it on their breaks. I forget that it isn't just for the young, you know? Gives me hope that I might be the one to show up with marks all up and down my neck one morning."

Aziraphale tried to school his features but he was more keen to get the woman out of his store so he could lock up and run to a mirror. He remembered Crowley kissing his neck, humming against it. It had felt quite lovely at the time, not at all painful and certainly nothing that would bruise!

With no more thought to the money, he shooed her from the shop as if she had asked about some of his cherished first editions. He flipped the sign to closed and dashed to the lavatory he kept for customers. In the cold and unflattering light hanging above the mirror, he could clearly see the mark on his neck, and could think of only one way that it got there. 

* * *

Crowley was more than capable of getting up on his own. And if he doubted his natural ability to wake at the desired time, he could certainly set an alarm on his phone to get him out of bed. But, for some reason, he let Aziraphale wake him each day by knocking gently on the door. It was one more piece of their overall routine. 

An uncharacteristically sharp rapping on his door jolted him from his slumber. He responded with his usual, incoherent noise of recognition and began the stretches and twists that preceded his getting out of bed. 

The knocking repeated. "Crowley!" snapped the angel from the other side of the door. "Get up! We need to talk!"

Crowley groaned. Those words were never good. He slithered out of bed and made his way to the door just as Aziraphale pounded on it for the third time.

"Crowley! Open up this instant or I --"

Crowley yanked the door open before the angel could vocalize his threat.

"Up or Down, and what did they do?" Crowley barked, dismissing pleasantries entirely in the face of Aziraphale's agitation. He scrubbed his face with his hands, mentally preparing himself for bad news and a quick response. 

"Neither," snapped the angel. "And this," he said, pointing to his neck. 

Crowley furrowed his brow. He wasn't sure what he should be looking at and he was too groggy to puzzle it out. If it wasn't trouble from Above or Below, he didn't know what could get the angel so worked up. "Are you trying a new knot in your bowtie?" 

It was apparently the wrong answer because the angel's eyes blazed with righteous fury. Crowley woke up a little more and looked again, squinting. There was a discoloration on the angel's neck, almost like a bruise.

Crowley's eyes went wide with recognition. "Oh," he said numbly.

Aziraphale's mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

"Well," Crowley offered, "so long as no one else has seen it, we can get rid of it and none the wiser." 

"I had three customers this morning," Aziraphale stated as an accusation.

Crowley winced. It was just his luck that today of all days the bookshop would get some foot traffic. "And how many of them do you expect to see again?" he asked, aiming for a dismissive tone. The angel had a habit of chasing off his customers. The situation was not irredeemable. 

"Perhaps none of them," Aziraphale admitted in clipped tones, "but the florist who stopped by to discuss how the block is going to decorate for the Christmas season is going to have a similar conversation with every store owner in the neighborhood, except it's now going to include, 'and have you seen the hickey Mr. Fell is sporting?'" 

Crowley nodded, trying not to provoke further anger. He knew he had pushed things a little more than Aziraphale would have gone on his own last night, and part of him was unsurprised that their relationship was going to suffer a setback, but he was still disappointed at it. 

"Shall I get dressed and have my coffee, and then we can talk about it?" At this point, he was just trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale was probably not going to smite him, but that didn't mean Crowley was getting out unscathed. 

Aziraphale miracled a demitasse and saucer and handed it to him with an icy glare. Crowley took it rather than having it thrust into his chest with enough force to shatter. Yes, Aziraphale had been aware of the love bite for longer than it had been wise. He'd had time to think and reach his own conclusions, and Crowley was now merely included pro forma like a criminal brought before a judge for sentencing. Aziraphale was even blocking Crowley from leaving his room and entering the rest of the angel's home. 

With a snap, Crowley replaced his pajamas with an outfit suitable for an evening gala, and his bed head with rakish spikes. If he was about to be evicted from Soho, he was going to go with style. He downed the shot of espresso in one gulp and sent the cup and saucer back to wherever they had come from. 

"Alright," he said, pulling sunglasses from a jacket pocket to shade his eyes, "you want me to go? Just say the word, Angel, and I'll go."

"Go?" Confusion was the first crack in Aziraphale's anger that he had seen this morning. "I don't… I didn't say…" He suddenly realized his posture implied a lot more hostility than he felt. "You marked me, Crowley, and I didn't even realize it was happening," he huffed. "I've never had one before. Six thousand years and I had no idea my corporation was even vulnerable to such a thing! And then I had three customers stop in this morning -- _three!_ \-- plus Mary Garth from the flower shop. Of course Mary noticed it right away and left to tell everyone else about it. A private moment is about to become salacious gossip. I am mortified, Crowley!"

Crowley wrinkled his face in thought. Fury was quickly morphing into distress, and it was not leveled at him. 

"So, you aren't angry with me?" guessed the demon.

"Crowley, you gave me a love bite!" Aziraphale reminded him. "Of course I'm angry with you. But I don't think you did it intentionally. Did you?" 

Silence fell as Crowley slowly realized the question was not rhetorical before assuming an air of (completely earned) innocence. To prove his sincerity, he took off his glasses and tucked them back into their pocket. 

"No!" he protested. "No, of course not. If I knew I made a mark, I would at least have taken a moment to revel in it." As admissions of innocence went, it was not the best but it was absolutely authentic.

Aziraphale only looked at him in disappointment. 

"Look, Angel, I didn't mean it," he offered as a demonic apology. "Let me chase her down and muddle her memories before she tells anyone. She's a lousy florist anyway. Her plants are all half-dead from boredom as near as I can tell."

There was a slight pause as Aziraphale considered it. "No," he sighed, "best not. She's probably already told everyone in the yarn shop next door. They'll be snickering at us behind their knitting needles, but I suppose it is to be expected. We are supposed to be a couple after all." He sighed again. "Well, come along, Dear, now that you're up, although you might want to change into something more casual. I know that I don't have anything so fancy planned for the afternoon."

So saying, the angel turned around and began to descend the stairs, leaving a slack-jawed demon in his wake.

"Wait a moment," Crowley called out, dangling his upper body over the bannister and the angel below him. "You're not upset with this?"

A flicker of irritation rippled over Aziraphale's features. "As I believe I have already stated, Crowley, I am quite upset with the situation."

"Yeah, but you're not all smitey or 'get thee out of my flat, demon,' or 'the minibreak is cancelled so bugger off,' or anything?"

"It's a bit too late for that now," Aziraphale reasoned. 

"And if I had noticed the mark before I went to bed last night…?" He trailed off, hoping for guidance.

"Then you should have said something," Aziraphale supplied. "It's easy enough to miracle away or hide with a scarf. No one else needs to know the minute details of what we do in private so long as we appear to match their vision of us."

_No one else needs to know._

Crowley folded over almost completely, hanging over the bannister. His shoes began to slip on the worn surface of the hall runner. 

"You'd've been fine if we'd snogged each other senseless last night so long as we got rid of the evidence before anyone else found out?" he asked. That was what it had sounded like, but the demon needed to check and double check. Getting this wrong could have serious repercussions.

Aziraphale looked at him hanging upside-down with patient resignation. "Well, yes, Dear. We're pretending to be a human couple, and that is certainly a very _human-couple_ thing to do. We're still learning. We'll get it right with enough practice."

Crowley's shoes slipped and he flailed a little more while Aziraphale disappeared from view. "Right," he said when he was no longer in danger of falling down the stairs, "practice."

He righted himself and went downstairs to buttonhole his angel. He had a feeling that there was more to this conversation. 

Aziraphale was found in the front room of the shop, making sure it was well and truly closed for the day.

"What were you thinking about practice?" the demon asked, getting quickly to the point. 

"That's what you want to talk about?" Aziraphale asked, not quite meeting his eyes. He had too many things to do to spare his demon a glance.

Crowley shrugged. "We've been pretending to be humans for more centuries than I care to count. We've got that part down. But, as you said, being a couple requires some practice to get it right. We need to be convincing after all. So. When should we practice?"

"I wasn't really planning on doing anything about it this afternoon," said Aziraphale as he kept moving. "There are some errands I want to run before we go out of town tomorrow. And we need to pack." 

It took a few seconds for Crowley to recognize it for what it was: not a refusal but a petition to be persuaded. After the angel's bold challenge last night, and after being found out by the neighborhood gossip, he was naturally a little shy. It was only appropriate for Crowley to make the next step. 

"But you aren't actively planning on not doing anything about it?" Crowley pressed as he followed the angel through the rooms. "If the situation arises? I mean, how else will I learn not to leave a mark?"

Aziraphale stopped abruptly and Crowley nearly crashed into him. Aziraphale turned and pointed a finger at the demon. 

"Just so we are clear," he said with warnings sparking in his eyes, "that my neck has already been on the receiving end. It is only fair that _your_ neck is next."

"That..." Crowley nodded. He mentally shredded his copy of the timeline and burned the pieces with hellfire, sending them scattering to the four winds. He would change his clothes into something more casual, suitable for an afternoon of errands and with a deep, wide v-neck for convenient access, and then he would drive the angel wherever he wanted to go as fast as the Bentley could travel until they were home again and stretched out on the sofa for more practice. "That seems like a fair and equitable arrangement."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it to the end and enjoyed it, please consider throwing a kudo my way, or some other positive feedback. 
> 
> I wrote a sequel to this -- the Opposite of Retirement -- which picks up at the minibreak. The tone is different, less "are we or aren't we?" and more "what we are is none of your business and we have more important things to discuss".


End file.
